A girl with a roar too big for her body
sharpens her ribs into points:
a trap for her tender, thunderous heart.
She’s been here too many times
before, counting seconds
until the inevitable,
the call to arms, the battle cry.
A summoning to the field soon to be
stained red, where grown men fall the hardest
and the survivors do not celebrate
because this is not victory.
There is no after-party.
You can’t fight with your foundations
and escape unscathed,
these wars take their toll in the end.
She’s lost her loved ones here before,
you see, and this is her returning to the crime scene,
taking a walk through memories half-faded.
She’s coming to terms with the blood
on her own hands,
one wound at a time, one heartache,
one less voice at the end of the telephone.
People like her know
the truth behind silent suffering,
feel the acid rising in their throat
and know how to stomach it.
Don’t pretend to know how this ends.
It’s different each time
and sometimes the strongest stumble,
caught off guard by an unfamiliar rhythm
in their lungs. Too easily choked.
Not everyone is as ready as she is,
unprepared with their soft
exposed, bared to the world, to the place
where it all ends.
She hopes they’ll make it
but it’s a free-for-all
and she’s made it this far.
This isn’t where she falls.
