Waking up
On the edge of a sandbank
stinking
and pulling stink bugs out my hair.

Waking up in the desert
sweating
and letting scorpions build a lair
in my tent
and in my boots.

Shooting hares and ravens,
for meat.
For a thrill.
It's not with it to go through it.
But still I ****.
I knew..
It would hurt but I would live,
but not in peace.

Living.... with a shiv in my ribs made of the bones of all I hurt.
I'd rather nerf my brain a brain and build hut made of dung
A yurt padded with bad memories, and hurtful lovely beings.