Don't Try To Love A Fighter

I see his reflection in your eyes
and I know what you’re thinking.

Don’t do it.
Don’t try to love a fighter.
He breaks everything he touches,
whether he means to or not.
He’ll break you, too.

Your fighter will die
running towards the sound of gunfire
     (you love that about him, right?
    I thought so)
and get shot in the head
    (because trust me, men like that
    won’t stop if they’re hit anywhere else)
and you’ll be told
    (we get knocks on our doors the same)
and you’ll cry and I’ll have to hold you
because even though you love me like your own sister,
you didn’t listen.

Or he won’t die;
    (fix that smile of yours right now)
he’ll spend years with you
    (I said stop it)
taking little pieces of your heart
    (as many as will fit
    in the side pocket of his old duffel bag)
and sprinkling them all over the world
because you can’t hold a life like that in one place;
you have to be willing to go wherever his battlefield is
and so few women are.

I see you still looking at him.
I warned you, sweetheart,
but some people are just like that;
they have to touch fire
to be sure that it burns.

It’s okay.
Go.

- - - - -

I watch you sprint away
in the direction of his bootprints,

then, sighing, I look at my hands,
at all of my own scars.

I should really know better than to give advice.