There is a fine line between Love and War.
Standing across it, we await the other’s move.
Unlike you, I am not alone.

I stand with many just like me.
Empty eyes and empty weapons
loaded now with empty threats.

You are the exception.
Eyes full of life and a mind full of thoughts.
Thoughts of us now and thoughts of before.

I fall into despair as you fall in love.
The hole gets colder and darker
as you pull the covers over your head.

There is a line between Love and War.
For me it is a trench, but
for you it is a bedsheet.

Standing here my feet turn grey as
I wait for the moment I can see the sun.
Waiting to see you one more time.

You land there next to me.
Radiating your light and warmth.
My helmet slips and your sleep mask falls.

There is a blurry line between Love and War.
I push up my helmet to get a glimpse of you.
If only it wasn’t the last time.

I am hurt but you already know.
You stand up to check on me and you
poke your head up above the loose dirt.

There is no more line between Love and War.
You were always kind and considerate.
Helping others before helping yourself.

Theres a loud ringing in my ears as I wake up
to reality. Your head tilts towards the mattress,
expecting a pillow but only finding the dirt.

I open my eyes again and I see you.
Peaceful and calm as if you were sleeping.
You’d have more time, if it wasn’t wasted on me.

You were blind to everything.
To everything and everyone.
Except for me.

Now you’re lying there between Love and War.

My alarm rings
It stings
Why do I have to get up
I want my coffee in my cup

I go to school
And remember I’m not “cool”
I don’t fit in
I feel like I’m in someone else's skin

I say it every day
When I feel my body start to sway
“I love myself”
But do I?

We all act like someone we aren’t
We’re all so blunt
I hear everyone say “Love yourself”
But do I love myself?

I’d love to pretend
But I always feel like I’ll bend
About to snap like my rubber band
Struggling just to stand

But I’ll always pretend
This isn’t the end

Long after the music ends,
 the body remembers.

Not the melody —
 but the weight of it.
Where the shoulders softened.
Where the fingers held a pause.
Where breath curled around a silence
  and didn’t let go.

The body doesn’t archive like the mind.
It doesn’t recall in sequence.
It remembers in tension.
In residue.
In the way your spine knows
  when something is about to fall.
In the twitch that follows
  a note that’s already gone.

Sometimes, I move like something
  I once heard.
Not consciously.
Just —
  a rhythm finds my step
      years later
      and walks me home.

There are gestures
  I no longer know the names for —
 but my body still offers them
  like a language it trusts
      more than thought.

Maybe this is how memory stays kind:
  not by being exact,
  but by letting itself
    be danced.

See them *****, ******* thoughts?
And those ****-ugly feelings?
Aye?

If it’s *****—it ain’t right.

Canny have rats in the hoose!
Crawlin’ aroon' yer skull,
clawin’ and draggin rot aboot—
kickin' up ****
and makin’ a mess!

No wonder yer ******.

Ye canny feed hope tae rats.

This is the hoose of God—
and it reeks.

So get tae work!

Say the name.
Chase them out.

They’ve lived rent-free too long.
Get them rat ******* tae ****.

Gifted in thought;
Made to dissolve in structure,
Forced to chase success.
Happiness hidden away
Where no one would dare to look.

Some sounds do not belong to instruments.
They live just after.
Or just before.

The echo the piano makes when no one is touching it.
The hum of a string not struck
 but shaken by something nearby.

The part of a voice
 when the singer forgets they’re being heard.

Sometimes the most important sound
  is the one that wasn’t played —
    but was felt
      in the hand that almost moved.

There is a kind of music
  that only exists
    inside the listener.

I’ve heard more truth
 in the seconds between chords
 than in the chords themselves.

Because those seconds
    aren’t performed —
    they leak.

And maybe that’s where the music
  stops pretending
  and becomes real.