War is never-ending.
It doesn’t forgive anyone— not even those who created it.
It will enslave every piece of your soul, strip shards out one-by-one.
It will leave you as a soulless husk in the aftermath of it all.
Your eyes widened.
Your breath constantly short.
Your head always turned over your shoulder.
Watching.
Waiting.
You weren’t forgiven for fighting in something you never even asked to be apart of.
War doesn’t stop for anyone.

You can’t eat money.
Not when every river has dried up. Not when every tree has burned, its ashes coating the sky—when our children think it’s snow.
Not when the world is too hot to inhabit. When our scarred bodies bear the marks of explosions nearby.
You can’t eat money.
Not when our teeth have fallen from the radiation.
Not when our fingers are gone, our brains decimated—our regret the only thought we have left:
How did we let this happen?

At the end of the day, you settle down and glance around.
You think endlessly.
You realize that you have not one person to call to.
Not one person who cares enough about the singular organism that is you.
Not your mother, your father, your brother.
Not your friends who only pretend to like you for the sake of it— only to talk behind your back.
My darling, who is really true to me?
Myself?
Not even I can trust myself.
What shall I do?
Shall I end it here without a second thought?
Or should I write?
My love, should I **** my self or sink onto the endless delusions of my own mind, splattered on paper?

Give me the key.
The key to your heart.
That desolate place you hold so dearly to yourself.
It seems empty to others, but I feel as though it is too full.
Full enough for you to feel every little thing ever, yet you hide it.
Why can’t you let me in?