I got soul but I’m not a soldier…

I was not made for war
Or shown how to keep count.
Those skills came, with the change
of each season. The absence of reason.
Tearing out the hearts of the pale
skinned innocents, like a blood sport,
redefined by those who had defeated me before.
Those who still have the blood of my fleshy
trust on their hands. Woman and man, alike.
New to the brutality that is this love.
A gift and a curse wrapped up in spiked gloves,
and rammed into my chest, and limbs.
On my knees, face covered in your mistakes,
you will find me. Faking injury. Feigning pain.
Time is a good teacher, I have learned.
Now, I am a master at war,
and particularly good at keeping score.
My heart is sealed and sewn and hard.
Come for me, pale faced and full of charm,
but know that if you raise your fists
I will surely do you harm.