soldier boy

I have enough pills and booze to kill an army, but I'm merely aiming for the lonely soldier trembling in the rear of the battalion. Red spiderwebs span the whites of his glazed eyes. His weapon is unsteady in his quivering hand. His heart races and he tightly closes his eyes. The battalion recedes into the silence swallowing the night. As he reluctantly opens his eyes he discovers his unit gone and two speakers are emitting lamentable sounds; an LP spins on a record player. A yellow flame from a candle flickers, broadcasting shadows that dance on a floor, four walls, and a ceiling.
Soldier boy carefully puts down his weapon and lays on the floor. Staring at the ceiling, he recollects on the number of battles he's lost -- how many times he shot bullets into the hearts of friends, lovers, and strangers. Every time, as his or her mound of flesh lay dying, the only words he could utter were "I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to." His tears would mix with their blood and he knew he would never see that friend, that lover, or that stranger again, because some things are impossible to retreat from and some deeds leave an impression that only die with the body.
Soldier boy continues to gaze at the ceiling and the shadows shift and transform into flashbacks. He sees ---- at her doorstep -- a cardigan and a kiss. There's soldier boy and ---- at a park tossing a Frisbee. Watching the ceiling a tear falls from his eye and he says, "She could never throw that damn Frisbee." The flashback skips and he sees himself driving on an interstate, stars glimmer above, and in the passenger seat is ----, fast asleep. He stares at her with adoring eyes and carefully places his hand on her lap.
Various flashbacks continue to flicker on the ceiling: a warm embrace, a kiss, two bodies asleep under sheets at 4AM, and an awkward first meeting at an all night eatery.
The record abruptly stops and faceless shadows return to the ceiling.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry...I didn't mean to...I don't know," soldier boy softly says.
The room is silent.
An unsettling yet familiar emptiness fills soldier boy's heart.

From the floor he reaches for his weapon
And places it in his hand,
He turns his right arm over
And under the dancing shadows
His pale skin faintly glows.

He thinks of his friends
Now faded portraits in houses abandoned,
He thinks of lost love
Now birds skimming treetops beautiful and free,
He thinks of the strangers
Now stillborn shadows following his footsteps.

He stares at the under side of his right arm:
Hairless
Pale
Perfect
"The sweetest canvas," he says to himself
And soldier boy surrenders...



He rises to his feet
On his arm are beads of blood
Leaving trails like seven creeping snails,
They descend down his thin arm
To his wrist
Over palm
Reaching fingertips.
A release.
Absolved.
Emancipation.
The sweetest canvas,
The sweetest surrender.



Soldier boy has enough pills and booze to kill an army, but I'm merely aiming for the holes inside. As I stare at my uncomely reflection, I'm haunted by the demons lurking behind that reflection. In light of recent events, I'm a confirmed walking contradiction of epic proportions -- a fuck-up.
I'm tired of taking meds.
I'm tired of unintentionally "destroying" people.
I'll be 29 years old in a couple of weeks and my younger sister is getting married in September.
I'm tired of battling myself.

mc