I laid down my rifle
a long time ago.
No more shouting from trenches,
no more pride in the mud.
I surrendered.
But she didn’t.
She’s still bunkered up,
hiding behind sarcasm and silence,
armed with old pain
and the ghosts of nights I didn’t cause.
So I get hit.
Over and over.
Sharp words. Cold stares.
Misfired memories that land on my chest
like shrapnel.
But I’m not backing off.
I’m crawling through barbed wire made of what-ifs
and landmines labeled “don’t go there.”
And I’m close now.
Close enough to smell the old perfume
beneath the wine and wilted willpower.
Close enough
to throw in a grenade —
not of anger,
but of love.
Pull the pin.
Say the words.
Let it explode in light
instead of fire.
Let it end this war
with something softer
than surrender.
Sometimes surrender isn’t weakness — it’s the only way to love without armor.
This poem came from a place of tired hope, trench warfare tenderness, and the kind of truth that changes you while you’re still holding it.
Written during the quiet moment before I threw in one last grenade — not to destroy, but to remind her what we once built together.
