Once the war was over,
and we stood on opposing sides,
waving white flags in the wreckage and the blood,
I took myself and the lingering ring of gunfire
to mourn my loss and grieve.
I focused on mending;
mending my heart and newly missed limbs,
immersing myself in new routines,
scrubbing away the debris left under my nails
the mechanical effort of breathing all day
leaving me exhausted each night in a bed for two,
curled around an empty space which grew sombre in the dark.
Eventually,
I could tuck you away in the back corner of the cupboard
in the box labelled 'before the war,'
and I could breathe just fine
but couldn't find my voice,
trapped in the fortified cocoon I'd built to convalesce.
These days though,
I am butterfly new,
uncertain and yet unfurled,
braving the winds outside the cocoon,
in hope they will catch the voice I'm finding.
