stripped of armour,
bloody dagger lying on the table,
blade worn from fighting off dragons and demons and
bandages in the palms of both hands
yellowed and bloodied and putrid
(how long have i carried them?)
covering my fingertips, my eyes, my heart.
stripped of armour
in your presence,
the dagger lying not too far off.
you could avenge them,
if you wanted to.
if i kneel
(and i kneel)
you could cut my throat
as easily as i have cut others’ tongues in the past.
but instead you kneel alongside me
and shed your protection as well
and you’re as bloodied as i am,
as scarred as i am.
the dagger is on the table
and it screams for tender flesh
it yearns to touch a human neck.
but so do my lips, so do yours,
and the steel remains neglected.
our warm battered skin, however —
the bandages peel
and we replace them with those soft, caring lips.
the war wars outside
and we’ve stepped away from it, finally —
and we’ve come out the victors.