The echoes of our screams have died
(Secret thoughts like hand grenades exploded to the outside)
The battle wounds in our chests
Torn open and sewn back shut
To leave scars we’ll cover up
With a well-placed smile

We’ve buried the hatchet

It’s time to move on
From this battlefield we’ve lived on
Whispered shells exploding shrapnel in our
Eyes
Seeping bitter tears of corn-syrup happiness
That cloud our vision to what was there
Love, Hate
To us, the same

But we’ve buried the hatchet

Sometimes blood and tears and happiness
Mix like water
and oil
Not really mixing, but
Separate
They can’t share the same space
Like us:

We’ve buried the hatchet—
In each other’s hearts

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Author's Note: I wasn't quite satisfied with this one, so I'd love to hear what you thought. I'd also be interested to hear your interpretation of the situation in this poem. I have my own ideas, but I want to hear yours. : ) And, as always, thanks for reading!