Battlefield

We are warring. Armed with only our inclinations, you wear your reason like a bulletproof vest. And while the emotion I carry is linked to reason of my own, I hold feelings, like giant red balloons. When everything but my callused hands are camouflaged the balloons float above the weight on my shoulders, like an unwanted birthday party. You never want birthday parties. I always want balloons. But right now, I understand why you reject things that pop and float and blow covers. You are a better shot than I. You aim just below the red balloons. Get me every time. 

I wake up to that pain in my chest, like maybe the bulletproof vest didn't work. Maybe we will always be stuck on the battlefield. 

Sometimes we bury casualties. Like other people's histories or the way they fit into ours. On those nights, we get a little closer. And a little further away. Pieces of the battlefield get stuck under nails or hair or lodged in the holes of our bulletproof vests. 

It's then I realize we are never pain-proof or bulletproof and, it turns out, we have less to prove than we think we do. And if that isn't proof that we aren't meant for the battlefield I don't know what is. But there are moments that put us on sides and moments that give opportunities to pick our own. 

Tonight I'll just pick the pieces out from under my nails and fall asleep on my stomach. My shirt like a white-flag. Surrender. Surrender.