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The Middle

I sit at the front line of a war. Each side tucked just beyond sight, awaiting the other to call for a truce while simultaneously waiting for the next barrage of murderous fire to come reigning down.

I sit in the middle, trying to coax each side out of their holes and come to an armistice. While each side stands firm in their righteous belief that it should be the other to expose themselves first. And while each side convinces me that there is nothing that they can or should do, that they have no responsibility in the matter.

I sit betwixt these two warring nations, as a human shield for each of them, claimed by each of them, rejected by each of them, despised by each of them. For each one thinks I am the other side's soldier.

I sit at the center, seeing both sides, knowing both sides pain. I take their bullets and I take the pain, because I don't know what else to do. Should I fail to take it, should I fail to stave off this battle, they may annihilate one another with their hurt and leave me forever, broken.

So the middle is my place until they rush forth and overwhelm me. This is where I stand and give my unwelcome counsel, my unworthy counsel, my repugnant words falling into the ether. The middle is where I must be 'til peace or death steals me from it.