the mark seems like it should show up
somewhere outside, he said, almost
tragically unfair that you can go on and
be charming, but what options were mine
when love fell to friendly fire? should I have
stockpiled my heart, sandbagged my door,
secured perimeter till eyes sagged, the soul
turned traitor? is it not better after bombs
and shell shock to admit wrongs and try to
right, to offer kindness, sanctuary? what
is won in the brandishing of bruises like
metals? is hell worth the purple heart? so
I've got my stripes like anybody, but it's a
drab war story, one where the worst scars
came on days I was never touched at all
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