Making War
The first time we fucked, it was on the living room floor
while a war documentary blared on the television.
We had made love many times before,
but that was when we cared about diplomacy.
We were having some dispute,
like most international conflicts
accounts vary on how it started.
It was either about laundry, dishes,
or whose national currency would fare better on the global market.
Whatever the opposite of jingoism is,
that’s what we felt for each other.
Our skin simply following orders
like soldiers who don’t care about international embargoes or UN summits,
men who don’t love their country,
who just want to make something bleed.
We laid on the rug,
they carpet bombed London.
Our naked bodies dripped with sweat,
theirs were piled in mass graves.
You cried “Oh God, oh God!”
so did they. Continue reading
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