Foreign

Simple things become simple problems.

Soon, no one cares about the spilled coffee

On their fresh and clean camo uniform

That covers and wraps us like a straight jacket.

 

We don't irritate over matching socks

According to the fade pattern of wear.

If we have a clean pair to abuse that day,

Then we can receive more needed rest.

 

Instead, I worry about stressful dangers

That I did not even know would exist

In my world of a has-been, lost athlete.

Dangers that some were not prepared for.

 

Clueless and on alert for the next IDF;

Praying to a God that it wont hit near

While I walk alone in the dark mist.

Persistently having a contingency plan.

 

My triggers expand as I see the locals

Burn my flesh with uninvited stares.

Some are unlucky and are violated

With what should never be forced upon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes, I can tell you I will make it home,

But not as the Woman you may want.

Broken and confused is what I get,

 

As do you.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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