When your words like spears pierce my side

and your knife finds the chinks in my armor,

what of this blood that spills to the floor?

Does it matter not to you?

I know that your heart beats within your chest,

and it feels, but does it feel the pain rendered to mine?

Do you notice the paler look in my eyes

and the gasping of my breath?

But today I will not fight you.

I will not draw my sword nor lift my shield.

Strike if you must, and may your aim be true.

Spend your wrath on me.

Pour it all out until there is no more.

Though we have gone to war more times

than I care to remember,

I will not take up arms against you this day.

I cannot fight this fight that leaves us both so wounded.

What of our love, beaten and broken?

Oh, my kindred spirit, how I know the pain you feel!

I have felt it as I have felt my own

within the marrow of these, my bones.

I am at once your victim, but your lover still.

But I will rise up again and dress my wounds,

for they will heal, and I will make ready my arms

to hold you once the rage has left your eyes

and the beating in your breasts has subsided.

 

I see your scars that shamefully I have given you

and I know the ire that fuels your charge.

What right have I but to stand vulnerable before you

and take what you may give to me?

Oh, how with such disdain I have so often done so far less

to the detriment of both you and I,

and of love itself, that precious bond that ties us.

Though I have struck with the words of my mouth

those soft and tender places of your soul,

and your retribution lands righteously,

this day I will hold my peace.

I will not give in to the darkness.

This day I will hold on to the light

and I will trust that if the sun bestows upon us another day,

you will find your light again

and we will so shine together once more.