Post War

Wed, 07/23/2014 - 02:30 -- jejuna



My body is a post-war wasteland

there are mines that explode when you run

your fingers over my skin

and there are graves of burning men and women

planted in half-moon craters across my arms

and on Sundays when I wash my hair

my knees are suddenly wet with red

John Frieda said the dye wouldn't fade for two weeks

but really, who could ever predict

sudden death

or stop gunshot bleeding

John Frieda didn't know shit

nor did any John ever who said

"It'll be okay"

You asked me why I don't talk to you anymore

I won't tell you

because telling means talking and talking

is not something that dead people do.

I always wondered why I could never

bear to hear you sing

and then I realized, yesterday

that no one ever appreciated

sing-song cruelty

Who ever wanted music

in a gas chamber?


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741