I never knew what war looked like;
I often imagine that it will feel like
closing my eyes- for a moment,
I can see everything and in the next,
I’m struggling to make sense of the dark.
I think war feels like kisses planted
on backs unwilling to receive any,
and like morsels of the leftovers from supper last night
shoved down throats already trying
to fight the bile rising in them.
Maybe war looks like burnt skin and
scorched organs scattered in fields
no one dares to tread upon, where
our forefathers sowed seeds of feuds
that we proudly carry on into
the dark, dark night that doesn’t know
what is to happen next.
Perhaps war is just an excuse for
a love gone wrong,
or an affair foiled by circumstance.
War, I assume, looks like memories of a love
that has forgotten how to beg in the right ways.
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