Love is a battlefield we are flying arrows when we hit flesh and one more soldier is down to the ground heavily armed with dreadful hopes in hand dead are they then alive they become as their blood are pouring down like milk as they go down in hysterical laughter they finally make it we become merely objects cutting sharp whoever is on site, we don’t know what the **** we are doing. but who is shooting us at the enemy? who has sharpened us till we bleed? thrown our strengths in the fire drown them into the water ‘til our wooden bodies get tired then break as they get finished? chanting at fate’s face the only thing we have held until that very moment that once and for all cheaters conquer the world good ones make it to the finish line.
I feel like love is not our battle. We participate but it isn’t up to us, it happens without our hands involved. Love is something greater than ourselves.