By Sravya Avula
What are you doing, my love?
Trying to forget your sorrow?
Aren’t you tired of holding up the walls,
Tired of firing bullets through narrow halls?
I wish I could help you—either way—
But my vest is torn, and my soul won’t stay.
So let me be with my sorrow,
For I choose not to fight, but to love tomorrow.
What are you doing, my love?
Trying to figure out why I can’t forgive?
Don’t you see I already did—
Long before you hurt me and hid?
I wish I could do it all again,
But it’s you who can’t forgive—not me, nor then.
For if you could, you could love,
And rise above both below and above.
What are you doing, my love?
Trying to erase me from your core?
Are my hundred deaths not enough—
That you still return for more?
I wish I could protect you, but the time had come—
To choose: me or you. And so I succumbed.
So let me go, for you must.
To let me live—
For that,
Is just.