War torn.

Some nights all it takes is to empty your chest. To dump out your heart and smear it’s messy innards. 

I’ve been holding in explosives and trying to keep in the warfare. But you just won’t fucking hear anything else out there. 

Sometimes quiet bombs become bombshells. They explode and they open and don’t care about casualties. They explode from her inner hell.

 You can’t throw darts in the dark hoping it won’t ignite and head for your cities. You can’t hide from the me’s. 

Smeary bloodstained fingers paint your name along the broken walls. You should know she was here. Quiet and calm has long since been gone and this explosion feels perfectly placed. 

Hide behind your mother where you feel more or less safe. Hide behind your lack of war paint. You wanted knives and I’ve brought tanks to your knife fight. I’m sick of sitting quietly hoping maybe you’ll give two shits about the blood you’ve drawn in the night. 

You sit in the shadows and keep twisting the words into brittle braids. Armor yourself with words you said I have made. Tell me to sit down and to wait. Tell me to be quiet while you try decide how to best my craze. 

Silly boy, I forge steel and I’ve made swords. I’ve sat quietly hoping things didn’t have to result in such wars…but you’ve  thrown enough sparks at hell raised warriors. You’ve spit lies at broken girls. 

Careful who you break because those edges can bring down your world. You can’t fight fire forged girls. 

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