War Wounds
A flame,
I rose from a change maker’s spark,
shaping tomorrow with intention.
Plans to love and touch the world with heart.
In your time, you were likely taught
that a child’s fire is nothing more than heat.
“Glow small, silent,
and especially discreet.”
Yet still, you burned.
Controlled, contained, unconcerned
with the world that tried to quiet your shine.
Your ember survived.
You may think we’re different.
No. I am your kind.
A survivor that marched,
carried my own front line,
hands steady on tasks
where courage had no disguise,
while you stood guard for your own
with disciplined eyes.
Now, I serve in a different division:
support, logistics, tactical vision,
mapping the routes your child will tread,
with care watching out for trouble ahead.
Not rivals in rank,
just two soldiers bleeding true.
Your past fortifies them
as my future, for us all, breaks through.
But hear this gently:
you never need to bend a willing heart
to make it understand.
I stand beside you
by choice, not by command.
Respect grows strongest
where there’s no force.
Support runs deepest
with spoken words, no Morse.
I’ve vowed to raise this bloodline higher,
a different yet disciplined, emotional fire.
So here I stand,
not waving anything white,
but extending an open, loving, sincere invite
Not afraid to disappoint,
nor to be ambushed
under the guise of your “support.”
Please don’t stomp out their fire,
nor ask for them to cease,
calling it their job
only to cross all boundaries.
We can work this out. For us all, and more
we have the same goal let’s end this war.
- Jalaila Hardy
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