i am made of war
and she is made of love

she mends
what i tear apart
the holes in the bronze
hammered into my soul

bruises blossom on her neck
evidence of my savagery
and she strokes my bones
and clutches close
my skin stitched together
the patchwork pieces

i would fight for her
die for her
again and again and again
tear myself to ashes
if only to fall between her fingers

my wounds are jagged
like broken glass
and she kisses them
and only when she rises do i see
that there is blood on my hands
and blood in her mouth

i am made of war
and she is made of love

but what makes war
if not love?