Battlefield of Hearts
In this endless theater where artillery aches and lust collide,
We are bodies marching into darkness, history tattooed on our hides.
The sky above us crackles with the bright war of want and regret,
Every touch a skirmish, every sigh a surrender, but nobody’s lost yet.
The rhythm of scar tissue splits open beneath midnight’s parade,
As sheets become battlefields and memory’s currency is paid.
Each thrust a declaration, every gasp a flag torn down,
Hands make weapons, kisses wound, and bruises serve as proof.
No mercy, no clean retreat, just flesh and sweat and skin–
We write treaties in moans and curses, burn bridges just to begin again.
Nails like bayonets carve oaths down aching, shaking backs,
Mouths fill the air with profanities and prayers, leaving peace in their cracks.
We wrestle for dominance in fever and spit, conquerors and the conquered intertwined,
Each “fuck” a dirty anthem, a tally of all the wars we survived.
Desire blooms into shrapnel, leaves medals of purple and red,
And I can’t tell if the healing is hurt, or if the hurt is what we need instead.
We are gladiators in a tangle, sweating blood and salt and want,
The headboard rattles a battle hymn, the walls bear witness to what we haunt.
After–the world falls silent; we lie tangled in the aftermath,
Two battered warriors, chests heaving, fingers tracing a bruised path.
No white flag, just a truce written in trembling, whispered apologies,
We’ll stitch wounds in the morning, tonight let scars serve as eulogies.
On this battlefield of hearts, the war never really ends–
Every dawn is a ceasefire, every “I love you” just a trigger, cocked again.