Soldier,
I won't be your red dot,
my body the coordinates
you hit or miss.
What if you say no?
What if you say yes?
What if I could care less?
I won't hide me behind uncertainty to
compliments camouflaged
as criteria
I must fail or pass
this ****** up social game,
no one seems to change the rules.
So I'll hide in my bunker cynically.
You might say I have PTSD
because too many bullets skimmed me.
But you are just another ******,
most comfortable with late nights
and green lights,
killing souls of girls
who just want to run home
and sleep alone,
not held in your hands,
nor held in your eyes,
and certainly
not scaled from 1 to 10.

You're violent.

She wrote love on a screen,
copied and pasted Death Cab
lyrics most sincerely.
But sincerity in high school
leaves few friends.
It is ostracized
like curly hair
and blemished faces.

So she followed her
forgotten heart into the dark.
Obit quotes of friends and family
vacant of responsibility.
Everyone blind-sighted,
to the scholar they wanted to see,
leaving her final breath
warrantless,
as if advanced Chemistry
excused her from Depression.
No one payed attention.
Her suicide was a crime of pain.
Her favorite song was the beauty of Death
And with her friends gone,
family busy,
and identity lost,
her soul embarked
on finding light in the dark.

Allyson,
you found it,
suffocating your isolation
to cardiac arrest,
so I didn't have to
a year later,
crumbling next to a stuck window screen,
next to a world that
didn't love me,
rationalizing two stories
wouldn't **** me,
crying in the flashlight
of remains below
I feared being.

Sleep peacefully,
Allyson Rose Green,
because your soul
is forever breathing in that song,
at least, for me.
And eight years from your death,
hearing it again,
I wish we could have been friends.
Maybe then, high school,
you could have survived.
And I could have lived it
with at least one lonely friend.
I barely scraped by.