He is a soldier.
I am aware of the battle that rages in his mind and the role I am to play. Rather than using my mind for plotting a winning strategy, he weaponizes my body against the thoughts of her, as if I can rid him of the feelings. In doing so, he inadvertently wages war in my own soul as I try not to fall on his sword.
Blinded by burning desire to feel in control of his emotions, his heart seeks out a battle post to tie to while he proclaims to be unattached. In response, I hide away at the knotted intricacies of my own desires in order to embrace the moments of his ever-fleeting touch.
A part of me is hurt but not because I am being used; rather my pain lies in how he uses me. I have become the cigarette to calm his nerves versus the feast to sustain him throughout the war. But I guess every warrior is conditioned to ration out his portions so I should know better than to complain.
For he is a soldier, his thoughts are the war, and I am its only casualty.
YOU ARE READING
What I Once Called Love: The Drafts
PoetryThis is my story, or rather a compilation of stories that spans more than a decade. Each piece is written from a place of truth with the exception of the names mentioned. The book itself will broken into sections, with each representing a different...
