How was I supposed to know,
that killing would come so hard,
and last so long,
and do what it did to my soul?
Why was the part of living death,
the thing that hangs on deep
clawing it's way into our hearts,
left out of the preparations of war?
How was I to know the cost,
of pulling a trigger,
or wielding a knife,
not to the person killed,
but to me?
Nobody told me ever,
not even once,
or hinted,
at the destruction to self of war.
How was I to know?
I was young,
and a boy,
and dependent on them,
on the soldiers who taught me how.
I set my traps,
I was taught.
I moved like a cat,
I was taught.
I could live in the wild,
I was taught.
I could best them all,
no matter the game,
I was taught.
Nobody taught me to live,
afterwards,
or to forget,
afterwards,
or to feel again,
afterwards.
How was I to know?
They never told me those things.