Battlefield

You hurt me.
I hurt you.
It’s like an unintentional battle of who can hurt who the most.
The battlefield is messy and confusing.
Shots are fired, but we can’t ever tell which side it’s from.
All we know is that it hurts.
It leaves wounds.
I don’t mean to.
You don’t mean to.
But I love you.
I keep my hand off the trigger for you.
I keep my weapon faced towards me at my risk so that I can protect you.
But I guess it still doesn't seem to work.
Because you are still getting wounded.
And so am I.
I hide in the trenches of fear.
You hide in yours.
But they are different trenches, with different fears.
The catch is,
We don’t know our opponents' fear.
Because of a lack of communication.
Because of pride.
Because of my obvious fear of burdance. 
How did this war of emotion even start?
We love each other.
We don’t want to hurt each other.
But still, we are on opposite sides of the field with our own insecurities.
I project mine onto you, like tear gas.
You don’t notice until it’s already gotten to you.
None of us are equipped with gas masks.
We breathe in the poisonous gas.
Over and over again.
To the point where we are fully aware that it’s harming us.
But we keep going.
We keep breathing.
Until we can’t.
Until you said
“I need a break”
So I gave you a break.
I dropped my weapons, and breathed in my insecurities.
I breathed them in until I suffocated
And collapsed
On the other side of the field.
Without you.
While you walk away.
And I remain.
Hurting me.
Hurting you.
Hurting us.