Growing up I’ve always heard that love is war. Now that we are here I have felt the pain that it brings, the temporary joy it provides, Maybe it’s the scars I still bear that make it hard to fight that war again. Maybe it's fear and memories of how many times my wine-glass heart shattered. Now I am here beside someone who has felt tranquility as much as desolation. Someone who has fought the war, a bloodhound for hearts, an owner of dog tags. She is a warrior, slaughterer, fought her love of war well and is still in commission, She bares deeper scars than I, easier to see just from the soft skin of her hands. As we sit in silence, appreciating company and focused on an art of acrylics, I can't help but think about the war we fought in similar ways. I can't help but think about how much she has helped me until this point. In other eyes she may be a warrior in commission, yes, But to me she is a Valkyrie, savior gilded in golden rose thorns and Ruby Rapids.
