i don't like this poem/ i'm still not sure how i feel about me.

and that summer i started playing war games,
digging thin trenches across the battlegrounds
of my lonely-cool skin.
even with the medicine to put my play to bed,
some nights i let you into
my tent where you turned my cot to
a crude operating table
and went about your hacksaw amputations.
the ringing of explosions beating in my ears
has persisted for two on-again-off-again years.
and i write letters to a girl who loved me
sometimes.
sometimes she loved me, not sometimes i write,
because i write every goddamn day,
with shaky ink scrawls she couldn't read
even if i'd ever sent her anything more than
dismembered parts of me free of explanations.
but this isn't a game anymore,
it is stinging showers and picking scabs
nearly every day this week,
and i think i might bleed out of love with all of you
if i don't go back to sleep.