I was not a soldier.
When I was a baby my bangs covered most of what I was thinking.
The expectation of what I would become was small compared to you.
And you... and when you... and you... didn't meet yours... I had none.
When my heart beat... an ashen red billowed into my tiny chest.
This was considered normal.
I was normal.
They turned me into a warrior for something to do.
I was something to do.
So I marched into battle.
Most of the babies did not know how to fight.
One thing or another had sent us there... but we were determined to be good at something.
That was all it was.... just to be good at something.
We beat one another until blood was drawn and dreams were impossible.
I chopped off all my bangs when it was over.
The front of my head required no more thinking and my patches and strings would never grow long enough to cover my aching stomach.
I'm a soldier now.
Prisms of electric telegrams tell me I can make it back from the battleground.
Then up she roars .... habitual disgust.
I look out from inside my head stretching my eyes past all of my folds... cornered and still... these wounds cannot fall my fences.
Just one more fight.
Then I will be a perfect soldier.
Let me acclimate to fear.
All for something to do.
#poetry #writing #PTSD