telephone lines

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.

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