The War is in your head. . .

There is nothing worse than the sound of your own breath
she says as she turns her languid sharp angles
to pierce me with her hips and thighs;
some how the body lies, doesn't it?
I thought that you might love me, she says,
as if to illicit some commentary.
I give her only her own thoughts back.
After all, this is war.
This is war with its search engines and tanks
to blast love directly out of the coastal waters.
Oh, we thought we were safe in the harbor.
Rocket's red glare glances off the social mirror
and we are not all free, even here, even now
as long as no one has what they want.
She shifts her form again lips like an arrow
into open space mouth to spill her words
spill her bile and hatred into my heart.
I regurgitate her love, void my belly
a hundred times and close my eyes;
This is not my America. This is not mine.
There is nothing worse than the sound
of your own breath, she repeats.
Yes there is, the fetid breath of the
tolerated intolerance in your sheets.