Leave the hat on or leave the hat off. Wipe the soup stain off my shirt or let it be. Block out the flashback or throw myself on it like Cutler did on the grenade back in that monsoon nightmare. Too late, I’m on it, KABOOM! Shredded guts and bone, enough flags to drape the body bags but not enough flak vests.
That’s it. Out of cigarettes. Roll twenty more and head out the door. Hat still on, covered in soup stains and gore.
Spent the day doing laundry, making a gigantic soup that will last a month, cleaning out the refrigerator for Christ’s sake. I need to get my priorities straight, my ducks in a row.
Slash and burn. Chop deadwood into firewood. Remember the little mice that nibble. Realize that this is the way life goes.
Fuck their PTSS nomenclature. Fuck their sterilized language. Give me flashbacks and white phosphorus and Bouncing Betties that let me know where I stand.