They say that love is a battlefield.
It's a conflict of the soul,
a clash of minds and bodies,
leaving suffering in its wake.
I never meant to fight this war.

I tried to retreat,
but you pursued me,
pulled me out from behind high walls,
forced me into these skirmishes.
And what have you gotten for all your trouble?
Pain.

Your blood is smeared over my face like war paint.
It's an invasion,
a violation,
and yet,
you leave your borders unguarded,
inviting me to plunder and pillage.
Will you martyr yourself for this lost cause?

I thought you were a warrior.
Why don't you fight back?
With a glance, I cast cold daggers;
I see them hit their mark.
Even your name has become a weapon in my hands,
a lance to pierce your heart.

I never wanted to hurt you;
maybe that was my first mistake.

Each time you offer yourself in surrender,
it is I who is defeated.
What tactics can hold,
on a field where logic is thwarted?
This treacherous heart will beat itself against you,
tearing both of us down,
to lie in ruin.

You should have just let me die.
What hope can you still have for us now?

They say love is a battlefield.

I say war is hell.