The Art of Warfare

My four years old daughter cries for her father,

The man who I once called husband,

Her eyes,

Nothing like his,

Nothing like mine,

Swell up like water balloons,

Tears leaking through the sides,

She is missing a piece of time when she was an innocent in the war,

The day I left behind a marriage that was riddled with bullets,

Reminded me of when the Americans pulled out of Vietnam,

They walked away from a volatile situation that was beyond their control,

That was not war,

With its lines drawn in the sand,

“Do not cross beyond this border”

And everybody knew who the good guy was and who wore the black hat.


Like my marriage,

Was full-out guerilla warfare,

Fought deep within the jungle of our house,

There was no border to keep me safe,

There was no negotiation tactics to stave off another day,

This was not war,

This was madness and

For a brief while,

Like Vietnam,

I fought the field and tried my hand at resurrecting a dead situation,

I played God

and realized that were was

 no belief behind the marriage,

No love between the parties,

Just raw anger in its primal nature

Wild and uncontrolled,

Seething and waiting.


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