Gewehr

If love is war, this love is World War II. Her heart is a Nazi officer, stationed in this relationship to guard mine, to be sure that it does not escape. Her heart kills mine slowly, brutally, relishing in its suffering, nearly starving it to death, feeding it only enough to subsist on. A scrap of caring every few weeks, a morsel of attention here and there. My heart is frail. His ribs are showing. His entire spine is visible. He is shrinking. He curls up alone and shivers himself to sleep. Her heart threatens mine into submission, beats him bloody, laughs in his face. Her heart takes away every comfort, makes mine forget what life outside of this was like, makes mine believe that good days could exist in this place, makes him forget that there is something outside of this. But most importantly, her heart keeps mine alive, doles out crumbs of hope to keep him going, makes sure he doesn't die before someone gives the command.