Brutally Beautiful
Nathanial showed me pictures he took of afghanistan on Saturday, before we went to my house for dinner. There was one of a donkey with it's guts spilling onto the road from stepping on a land mine. There was one of a man holding a foot. There are pictures of him walking, near the wheels of large beige vehicles, there's hesitation in his frozen steps.
Falling asleep wrapped together on a twin bed, snuck into an army barracks. liqour spills from my sweat glands. A few hours later, the room is filled with soldiers. Laughing and drinking, 9am and it starts again.
You will not understand pain. I never will either. Some men believe they are made for violence. Some men are made of violence. Their teeth and fingertips created and used to tear flesh. We are meat. Vodka tears run down cheeks, words of regret and pain spill from lips, loosened by absolut. This is anger, and death and murder. I am just an observer. He holds me too tight sometimes, it feels like my ribs or throat might crack, but it's still gentle, the way you hold a baby chicken or a mouse, firm, but forgiving.
This is not politics. War is not legislation and protestors. War is young men, used for their bodies, smeared on roads acoss oceans. There is no morality.
Soldiers and Whores. Dust and Ashes. Blue cups filled with alcohol and cigarette butts. The smooth curve of your hips and the strong angle of your jaw. Holding your head in my arms when you can't breathe.
Falling asleep wrapped together on a twin bed, snuck into an army barracks. liqour spills from my sweat glands. A few hours later, the room is filled with soldiers. Laughing and drinking, 9am and it starts again.
You will not understand pain. I never will either. Some men believe they are made for violence. Some men are made of violence. Their teeth and fingertips created and used to tear flesh. We are meat. Vodka tears run down cheeks, words of regret and pain spill from lips, loosened by absolut. This is anger, and death and murder. I am just an observer. He holds me too tight sometimes, it feels like my ribs or throat might crack, but it's still gentle, the way you hold a baby chicken or a mouse, firm, but forgiving.
This is not politics. War is not legislation and protestors. War is young men, used for their bodies, smeared on roads acoss oceans. There is no morality.
Soldiers and Whores. Dust and Ashes. Blue cups filled with alcohol and cigarette butts. The smooth curve of your hips and the strong angle of your jaw. Holding your head in my arms when you can't breathe.