I see the wall you start to build,
so I build mine.
I see anger and pain in your eyes,
and so I fill my own,
but yours leaks down your face,
and mine does not,
for I am the better warrior.
And whereas your pain is fresh and new,
whenever inflicted,
my wounds have long scarred over,
and the pain within is dulled beyond sensing.
You quickly clutch your handful of quarrels,
and I slowly gather mine,
and we dip them in the poisons
of our tongues, and memories,
place them in our quivers of rage,
and loose.
They are barbed and painful
these quarrels,
meant to shatter and break,
meant to defeat the love that yet might
burn in the heart,
and smother it.
We try our best to find new flesh to pierce,
but we have only hit the old marks again,
rebuilt the chasm, and destroyed the bridge.
The peace of our home is in pieces.
The security of our love is set aflame.
The silence of our emotions is a dry wind.
And the quarrels are exhausted.
We retreat within the walls,
and pull them out, one by one, ruminating over each,
wondering why we still share the same space,
and little else.
It is a war we’ll never win,
a victory denied,
a constant obstacle of overcoming,
frenetically undermined.
So, my former darling,
we raise our white flags
into the light of a setting sun,
as you go your way,
and I go mine.
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Beyond Panic 