i'm trying
not to think
about how
your hands
feel like
the beginning
&
the end
of every
major battle

Antietam pales
in comparison
to the
destruction your
voice brought;
you still
haven't apologized
for the
burn marks
you left
on my
efforts to
always be
all of
your favorite
battle scars

mental hospitals
are just
the halfway
point between
my avidity
&
your cynicism

your war
studded voice
sounds like
abandoned rooms
&
wrong notes
but somehow
I always
hear peace
treaties in
the way
you breathe
'im sorry'

your hands
feel like
they are
covered in
gunpowder and
im afraid
the spark
i feel
when you
hold my
own will
somehow blow
this all
out of
proportion. i
am unsure
if you
are worth
the destruction.
i am
unsure if
i want
to be
another casualty.

send help
in the
form of
bullet wounds

cut every
part of
me off
that has
felt the
discomfort that
your hands
leave; there
will be
a trial
for your
war crimes
and i
hope that
you experience
the wwii
you breathed
into the
spaces between
my collar
bones; this
is Nuremburg
and i
am the
entire Jewish
population. we
*survived you.