There is nothing romantic about being a battlefield where men have fallen.
Babe, your hair is the colour of red crumbly bricks of a fallen building.
The same bricks you picked up and threw against a window when you were 13.
You never told anyone, there was a lot you never told anyone.
I know you feel like they’ve dug trenches in you.
I know you feel like you’re covered in shrapnel from men who would not stop exploding in your vicinity.
And sometimes when you speak they hear nothing but sirens.
I’m sorry you’re hurting while they get to run for cover.
But darling you were born with riots in your veins,
and there are days when you wake up to silence,
there are nights when your eyes aren’t burning.
And I think it’s time you march on home.
March home, sweetheart, and tell them you won.


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