You can play with the tension and not get caught, but you can never break it;
not when nerves are taut telephone lines purring with electricity; thick enough to chew. The cracks are deep enough to bury a secret, swallow each perforated promise, and each broken beacon.
I can feel your pulse racing against mine. I can't tell whose heart is beating and whose is beat. We are two sticks of dynamite in the same trophy tin: sparks of breath singeing skin, we hold each other up until we hold each other down.
The rules of war change with your mood, the laws of physics are putty in your hands, and the tides of time are your own collapsing conspiracy- a house of cards you reshuffle and repossess as the candle burns a circle of wax on the table.
I can’t decide if you want to devour me or decimate me— adore my halo or annihilate my hope, love me with your whole heart or wreck mine with your whole weight. And you can’t decide either, can you?
The light is unkind, the land unforgiving, and you are all my favorite lies; the canvas of my incomplete portrait, the crossed out pages of my abandoned poems.
You can play with your edge or throw me off it. Either way, I'll be yours to keep or yours to conquer. I won’t tell you how to ruin me, or beg you to spare me from your rabid reign— I’m not that kind of country. I’m an open border; a shattered compass, spinning wildly.
But I will say: the ruins are all that’s left when the empire falls, all that’s real when the games are done, all that’s preserved when the tension eases and the maps are redrawn, again and again.