In war, soldiers use guns,
and knives, and bombs,
and fire.
There is always a plan.
Always someone in your ear,
Whispering ever so quietly,
“Go on, it won’t matter to you.”

In the end, someone gets hurt.

In love, lovers use words,
and feelings, and actions,
and comfort.
Here, everyone is an expert.
Always giving advice,
never caring if it actually works,

In the end, someone gets hurt.

Love is war.
But here, your words are the guns,
your feelings are the knives,
your actions are the bombs,
and your comfort is the fire.
With your friends and family
whispering their advice,
“Go on, it’ll hurt now, but she’ll be fine.”

So you do, you throw your actions,
you stab with your feelings,
you burn with your comfort,
but worst of all,
you shoot me down with your words.
Because it doesn’t matter to you,
and it may hurt now, but I’ll be fine.

But I’m not.
Time doesn’t heal wounds,
and now I’ll always know:
Love is war, and
in the end, someone gets hurt