Borders

I am at war with my borders, constantly pushing the limits and disregarding any resistance. White flag waving with good intentions, though I know this is hostile territory. I crawl through the rubble, bloodied and battered, searching for protection. My only cover a blanket of bullets, comforting in its familiarity.

I am at war with my borders, caught in the cross fires of perpetual thoughts and intrusive memories. Begging for a chance to breathe in toxic fumes, not knowing what fresh air smells like. You see blossoming flowers, I see glowing embers from the last bomb.

I am at war with my borders and just as I see a shimmer of light, clouds of ash hide it once more. The darkness of conflict refuses to let me win, knowing that I will stumble my way through, injuring myself along the way.

There has never been a time when I was not at war with my borders. Though I beg for a peace treaty, the paper is ripped in my face. Each setback a win for my enemy as they laugh at my misery. So I injured myself, breathe in the beautiful toxic fumes, and embrace layers of bullets. I become my very enemy.

This poem is about: 
Me

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