I tire of love and terrorism;
the way my broken heart
lay claim to territory unknown before;
the way the softness of these blankets
fall like bombs in your wake;
the way the hunger for calm strikes and
feeds in rations;
the way the post trauma stands guard at closed eyes
and charges ahead when I wake;
the way it loops itself about my mushroom cloud
and belts its breath on my cheek.
I tire of scratching at hope like
hope will reward me for lasting the week.
I grow weary of this kamikaze daze:
my eyes, the reflection of every wound I bare.
I tire of love and terrorism:
the way my broken heart ignites from within,
limp and lost,
from so much exploding without.
© Tamara Natividad | pisceanesque.com | Written 12 July, 2017