War is an organ.

A useless one, an appendix that you’re not aware of until it fills up to the brim with residual feelings. An organ that accumulates toxins, inside it there are battles being fought, our body starts boiling. Useless but highly vascularized, like the fine nerves like those on a cherry flower petal.

War is a phantom limb.

One that you can’t see but that you can feel twitching in a strange area of your body, rhythmically stretching its fibrous and crude muscles. It is an extension that grows from within us, colossally disproportioned.

War is a mouth that engulfs.

War is a sea of tar.

Your soft body laying it its back, doing the float, outstretched like a cartoonish Jesus. It sinks slowly in a charming and unavoidable black. It looks almost beautiful, like the night's sky, heavy with constellations. Only it's not.

War is every decision we make while high on the abstract flavor of fear.

War is all "me" and no "you".

War is like bubble gum of an unnatural neon color, attractive like a delicious poison, that makes jaws succumb and tongues get stuck in a lethal kiss. It is a marathon of mastication without nurture, consuming absence.

War is playing hide and seek with all the monsters from under your bed. But also the all monsters from under other beds, too.

War is all the love we are not making.