War torn

As I pick myself up off the floor of this house, this body of mine, the only thing left untouched seemed to be the solid pillars that stand on either side, front and back. I scan this home with its war torn walls and battle lines faded then begin to salvage what I can find. Ammo loaded tongue rests inside my tired mouth, numb and quiet, too weary to spew anymore. Teeth have been rattled from the continous knock of glass upon them during the fight and cheeks are swollen inside from nervous biting between rounds. I catch a glimpse of swollen eyes on the shattered glass around and think out loud, this surely could not be me.

I find my shrapnel filled heart laying off to the side, slung from my belly where it always seemed to land as it was dropped like the bombs in an air raid. Saltwater red streams slide out from underneath weary and wet my feet. The gaping wound in my chest not yet ready to house that broken heart just yet.

Pictures and frames, cracked and broken, are tossed all over the halls. They are the faces of the past and neither nail nor chain could keep them in place as the walls shook from the fires. I'll leave those in their grave, their time done, and new faces will fill their empty spots.

Pages littered underneath my feet, thrown from the dusty books that once sat on the shelf of my mind, lie there in yellow, brown, and white. Some are wrinkled and worn, the memories I'd read as I sat locked inside this skin. They are the classic novels with bleeding ink, throwing comfort across me like a blanket when I would read them on the screen of the darkened side of my eyes. Others are crisp, clean, unused portions of stories gathered of late, too new to be softened by my minds fingers passing through. These are the ones that I gather off the floor and now place neatly on these shaken shelves. They are still worthy of the read.

I check room to room in this crumbled mess, finding pieces of the life lived before, bent, torn, and all but broken. The damaged frame still drops all around me as I pull myself in, clutched and dodging the remnants that can no longer stand.

 As I make my way to the open sky and turn to look at the place I used to live I see the casualties of this war staring back at me from the mirrors that lie on the piles of warfare. I see my hardened heart and shattered mind slowly crawling back to find a place to rest until this wounded warrior can house them again.

The fighting has ceased. No shots can be heard, no more rumbling in the sky as the artillery falls down. Only clouds of dust fly overhead and slowly clear away. Peace is being made.

And this woman, damaged and crushed by the weight of the war, still hangs intact to those pillars and the rebuilding of this place, this life of mine, slowly begins. Foundations will be set, and the frame of these bones will hold strong. One by one, breath and brick will be laid and this home will rise again. Fireplaces will burn in this chest, with warmth to cover any cold and sunlight will shine through the stained glass doors of my skin. And this soul will walk all the rooms that have been built, war torn no more.