A girl with a roar too big for her body sharpens her ribs into points: a trap for her tender, thunderous heart.
She’s been here too many times before, counting seconds until the inevitable, the call to arms, the battle cry.
A summoning to the field soon to be stained red, where grown men fall the hardest and the survivors do not celebrate because this is not victory. There is no after-party.
You can’t fight with your foundations and escape unscathed, these wars take their toll in the end. She’s lost her loved ones here before, you see, and this is her returning to the crime scene, taking a walk through memories half-faded.
She’s coming to terms with the blood on her own hands, one wound at a time, one heartache, one less voice at the end of the telephone.
People like her know the truth behind silent suffering, feel the acid rising in their throat and know how to stomach it.
Don’t pretend to know how this ends. It’s different each time and sometimes the strongest stumble, caught off guard by an unfamiliar rhythm in their lungs. Too easily choked.
Not everyone is as ready as she is, unprepared with their soft exposed, bared to the world, to the place where it all ends.
She hopes they’ll make it but it’s a free-for-all and she’s made it this far.