Oh! The heartache I had felt,
At the tender age of seventeen.
Losses haunted, like the silver specks of weakness,
That danced before my eyes.
Oh the anguish!
Of all those boys I deeply loved
(And yes, I loved them truly!)
I was seventeen - practically a woman!
Of course I knew what love was.

Yet that day before I shed my childhood,
I ****** my childish ignorance,
As I was called to stand *****,
In front of the mole-hill field of mourners
As the men, they trembled under the weight,
Of your coffin, and the crushing grief,

And I endured your hero's call home,
Hand in hand with a faceless person.
Not once but twice.
No mercy.
The bugle, it wept for me.

And I held back tears and realised
That loss is not the beating of your teenage breast
And standing in the shower as tears mix with soap
And writing poems full of teenage angst
And slamming doors and phones against walls.

This is loss.
This will always be loss.