I am a casualty of war,
A battle I should have been fighting
Except I didn’t know.

Those really were bombs falling.
But you turned the music up loud
And led me in a dance
Until all I could hear was my heart pounding.

Until all I could feel was my heart exploding.

Collateral damage blooms daily,
Poppies that bring no sleep or trance,
Only remembrance.

I hate the flowers in my hand
(the only bouquet you ever gave me)
And I’d give them back
If I could:

Doubt of everything I hear.
Suspicion of a smile.
Bitterness poisoning hope.
Despair dogging joy.
Fear of touch.
Terror of trust.
Regret of every. single. moment.

Day after day after day, I pick them,
Trying to turn red fields green again
By cutting down what you planted here:
Black-hearted blossoms
As far as I can see.

Day after day after day, there are more,
Green fields bleeding red again,
Like nothing I did mattered

(And it didn’t)

But I gather and lay them on
The unmarked grave where I suspect
You buried us.
Mine are the only flowers there.

Either I am the only one that mourns
Or this grave is of some other casualty
Of some other war.
And I am not sure it matters anymore.

~Melody Wingfield, 2015


Melody Wingfield

Author | Voice Artist | Witch Queen - Melody Wingfield is the creator of The WitchQueen Project podcast and an author of dark fantasy, epic mythology, horror, and erotica. You can find her on Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok at @witchqueenarts. Subscribe to her newsletter, The Magick Word on her website, www.witchqueenarts.com.

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