Battlefield

Battleground

Witchazel stings more than usual
And my stomach always aches.

I'm tired of my body being a battleground
From a war inside my head
Waged
With 'love marks' that I loathe
Like hand-to-hand combat
Against my better judgement

And cuts turned from silver to red
Like swordplay
Against my sadness

And the diseased retching
Like a toothbrush is a bullet
Against my self loathing

I am tired
Of every conversation
A prayer
That more troops will arrive on my side

Of every cut
A war song
That I will someday win

Of every ounce of food
A cannon fodder
That I will not loose to my reflection

I am tired of how
Kiss
Then regret
Binge
Then purge
Cut then clean
Becomes the norm
Like
Waving goodbye
To the hopes of a war boy's return
Meals without sugar
As the price rises every day
Learning Red Cross nursing
As a second job in a war you never chose

But most of all
I am tired
Of how boys become time-wasters
As I await
Bombs to my head
Like the permanent light
Of blades on my skin
Everytime I see my body in the light,
Of food as rations
And scars as war paint
Against the way I feel inside