I wear no armor the way she does, and so, I stand naked in
the sun when she come to wage war, locked up in impenetrable metal that does
not protect her from suffering wounds, yet keeps any from being fatal, while I,
exposed, my breast open to each stroke of sword, not her, instead my own, as
this is a battle I fight with myself, she hardened if not safe, deep in a dungeon
of steel, she created for herself, unmoved, unable to fully express love, one cannot
find peace inside a rickey piece of rusted steel, unable to feel blows, good or
bad, she is always wounded on the inside, just as I am without, and still, I envy her and he armor, even as I
hate my inability to reach into her, needing to feel more than her wrath,
needing to feel her breath, her gentle lips on mine, the feel of her breasts
beneath my fingers, the depths of her into which I might plunge my blunt sword,
when even that space is protected if not immune, having born all the wrath of
others before me so she shows no pain even when she feels it. And yet, at
times, I can see through her metal mask, sensing what she feels, hearing
perhaps the constant bang of on her metal heart, as I realize I cannot never
reach the soft part she does everything to protect.
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