love is a battlefield

the trouble began with me referring to my side of the bed as my foxhole.

and her side, the trenches

for her, the bed became hiroshima, after the bomb fell.

(she’s japanese, so i guess she’s allowed.)

putting on my p.j.s i called suiting up.

when she pulled her nightgown over her head, she’d shout battle stations!

no quarter was given, none asked. biting was allowed.

poison gas under the covers.

peace talks at breakfast.

for Mad About Metaphor

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