my heart breaks for the days when i failed to take care of you

when i felt you withering around me

fading to white

succumbing to something other than yourself.

for the men you have housed

i apologise.

you were not meant to become a way-station

a roadside drive-through

a motel for lost men

blinds shut and the lights on—

with shadows intertwining against the windows

with each pleasure leaving a new scar.

i did not think you would survive the way you:

waking me in the mornings

shaking me to sleep in the dark

long walks in the heat of day—

sun and sweat are the closest siblings—

trembling in the breeze.

no one could think that you, body, were more than flesh and bone:

a penthouse for the soul i sold in parts and pieces

a morgue for the men once their flesh expelled and expired

a hospital for all the little wounds i left.

you were not meant to become a casualty—

not in this war

not by your own hands.

if history is written by the victors,

i pray to hear a poem

one where you decry the boy that could not care

one where you detail each scar and give it a name

one where you destroy the cemetery that i built within you.

for the days i did not care: i am sorry.

for the days you did: i cannot thank you enough.