Work Text:
Compromise is to sacrifice as a hand is
to the finger. It burgeons beyond itself
& you never know when to water it. For
what grows without water? Your trees
needed a whole platoon to put them out.
People are always severing love from
war. Stupidly. Love is in every ounce
of blood spilled, or else there’d be no
promise. You are every little death. War
is like that. Love is too, only worse.
When you were twelve you kissed a
boy on the nose & you shared dinner
that night. You put your knee right to
his. Knobby ankles knocking. Love
is fire. It is alive in your belly. It craves.
When you were old enough to drink a
boy sent you home all twisted up inside
like a good joyride, you wet on his skin.
He turned you inside out. He made your
head spin. He locked the door behind him.
He is your little death. Your compromise.
He makes you think, only worse. He sets
you on fire & you wish he’d learn to water
first. When you say he took your hand
you should mean he walked you home
not that he tore it off.