I walked into Walgreen’s that night
absorbed in my own little world.
Soon after entering,
I made my way to the line.
My eyes
d a n c e d
to the crescent-moon shaped scar
adorning the young clerk’s neck.
With the gentleman in front of me,
he spoke of
camouflage and machine guns.
Earlier times when he
could only see his
family through
the lens of
a
webcam.
When he first learned what it took
to be a man.
And when he learned what true loss
really felt like.
It’s my turn.
I step f o r w ard
and stare directly into his eyes
and wonder
how he ended up here.
His face doesn’t give away much,
he’s painted on a cordial smile
and the air between us seeps
with the remnants
of small talk.
But I can’t help wondering.
I wonder, if he knows
he’s more than he’s been told.
more than he’s settled for.
more than the orders he was commanded to obey.
more than the lines he was expected to cross.
more than the monster he had to become.
To survive.
I can’t help but wonder
how he’s ended up here.
Overseas— he’s ranked
but now that he’s home
on friendly soil, he’s thrown into department store
positions and temporary jobs.
I can only hope he’s better off than some of his friends
tossed into
psychiatrists offices.
But I wonder,
I wonder what memories might decide to plague his dreams.
While he tries to figure out
which pill alleviates which painful recollection.
Which part of his past will come back to haunt him today
and which of his friends lives will flash before his eyes while he tries to sleep.
Norepinephrine firing through his brain
like the gunshots he had to deliver.
The U.S government is so quick to draft,
but hasn’t learned how to welcome home.
They hide their veterans in the dark corners of psych wards,
allow them to get lost in the depths of their own minds,
while the PTSD
eats away whatever is left.
These men fight for countries who don’t know what to do with them afterwards.
What they both need to learn:
There is life after war.
Jan 27, 2013
Jan 27, 2013 at 4:21 PM UTC
I walked into Walgreen’s that night
absorbed in my own little world.
Soon after entering,
I made my way to the line.
My eyes
d a n c e d
to the crescent-moon shaped scar
adorning the young clerk’s neck.
With the gentleman in front of me,
he spoke of
camouflage and machine guns.
Earlier times when he
could only see his
family through
the lens of
a
webcam.
When he first learned what it took
to be a man.
And when he learned what true loss
really felt like.
It’s my turn.
I step f o r w ard
and stare directly into his eyes
and wonder
how he ended up here.
His face doesn’t give away much,
he’s painted on a cordial smile
and the air between us seeps
with the remnants
of small talk.
But I can’t help wondering.
I wonder, if he knows
he’s more than he’s been told.
more than he’s settled for.
more than the orders he was commanded to obey.
more than the lines he was expected to cross.
more than the monster he had to become.
To survive.
I can’t help but wonder
how he’s ended up here.
Overseas— he’s ranked
but now that he’s home
on friendly soil, he’s thrown into department store
positions and temporary jobs.
I can only hope he’s better off than some of his friends
tossed into
psychiatrists offices.
But I wonder,
I wonder what memories might decide to plague his dreams.
While he tries to figure out
which pill alleviates which painful recollection.
Which part of his past will come back to haunt him today
and which of his friends lives will flash before his eyes while he tries to sleep.
Norepinephrine firing through his brain
like the gunshots he had to deliver.
The U.S government is so quick to draft,
but hasn’t learned how to welcome home.
They hide their veterans in the dark corners of psych wards,
allow them to get lost in the depths of their own minds,
while the PTSD
eats away whatever is left.
These men fight for countries who don’t know what to do with them afterwards.
What they both need to learn:
There is life after war.
