see, every time i rise from the dinner table
i leave a battlefield behind.
bones plucked, strewn, broken;
spit showering down like hail.
what is otherwise something sacred,
really is a waste of space.
they tell me to pray about love, but if they
can’t tell me that we‘re something real
then that’d just be blasphemous.
someday always, and
eventually diffuses into a myth.
so instead i build a militia of something less.
something less than divine intervention,
or rhapsodic songs about soulmates.
because i know better,
because i am a soldier,
yet
this is why they call me a monster.
precious 