What does it mean to be the one—
the last body to bear the weight,
the wound that will not scar over,
the reckoning, the uninvited peace?
To stand in the line of every onslaught,
to inherit the fists that never unclenched,
to wear the war like skin,
a war not just of bodies,
but of histories, of bloodlines, of names spoken like curses,
where neither side asks,
"How do we stop?"
but only,
"How do we ruin the other?"
Blow upon blow, years upon years,
hate upon hate—
can love end a war?
What if we opened our arms—
but wait.
Hasn't that been done before?
Didn't they open their arms?
Didn't they welcome, didn't they trust,
and weren't they stepped on,
weren't they swallowed,
weren't they erased?
And yet—
what about what was just said?
How much love before love itself becomes war?
How much love before love is the ruin?
How much love—how much—
before it is swallowed whole?
I ask again,
What does it mean to be the one—
the body, the wound, the reckoning—
the curse that ends a war,
a generational war, an internal war, a curse,
to receive every onslaught, every weight
that history has heaved onto your back,
a war where both sides do not ask,
"How can we stop?"
but rather,
"How can we better destroy?"
Blow upon blow, years upon years,
hate upon hate—
can love be the answer?
What if we opened our arms—
oh, but wait,
was that not what so many did before?
Was that not the way of those
who were stepped on,
their openness mistaken for surrender,
their kindness wrung dry?
But does that make love any less—
does it make it useless?
If love is taken for granted,
was it ineffective?
Or was it the only thing that ever truly was?
And yet—
what about what was just said?
How much love—
how much love before the hands that give
become the hands that break?
