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"War Wounds" poem
Dec. 23rd, 2015 03:10 am“War Wounds”
By = Alexander Antonin
Every time I see a practical joke, I cringe.
Every time someone laughs at someone else's pain,
I feel their pain as my own,
And I revisit past pain of my own.
They think they're being funny, I think they're being scum.
They feel amusement, I feel fear and rage.
It's just my war wounds acting up,
PTSD flashbacks from the battlefield of my childhood,
The shells and mortars and bullets of peer abuse.
Elementary school, where being different makes you a target,
Everyone declaring war on the weird kid,
Who now has to cross no-man's land for 8 hours
Before returning to the safety of the bunker.
Teachers were like non-combatant civilians on the field,
Mostly useless whether they were on your side or not;
Asking them for help only drew more enemy fire,
And some of them were traitors to the cause.
I had no brothers in arms in the trenches; it was just me.
My leaders didn't even know I was at war, at first,
And didn't provide many munitions or barbed wire when they found out.
It wasn't malice, only helplessness and ignorance;
Their economy was unprepared for war,
And they weren't on the front lines, they didn't know the stakes.
And it's hard to support the troops when they can't give you good intel,
Because they're a shell-shocked child too scared to speak.
Then, after years of safety at home, suddenly there's constant noise.
The blaring air raid siren that was my sister,
Always going off for some reason or other.
A different kind of battle, a different kind of enemy,
International war at school, civil war at home.
Supporting the troops was no longer an option,
They were too busy fighting Godzilla
To have a thought to spare for my own war.
And don't even get me started on high school!
Me: genderqueer, androgynous, publicly identified as male.
Them: Sexually harassing me, bullying me, catcalling from cars,
Getting in my personal space, touching me without consent;
All this, and sexual assault (just shy of rape) for four years.
Now I flinch at every touch, and honking cars.
Now I question every compliment, in case it's sarcastic.
Now all whispering people are talking about me,
Or so my brain tells me.
My war wounds act up, and I act out,
Lashing out at the slightest perception of enemy fire,
Making pre-emptive strikes against enemy insurgents,
When I'm not holed up in my bunker or a tank.
“Veteran of the Psychic Wars” by BÖC is my national anthem,
Because “the war still rages on and there's no end that I know,”
And “I can't say if I'm ever gonna be free,”
But their “Sole Survivor” is my “Purple Mountains Majesty.”
By = Alexander Antonin
Every time I see a practical joke, I cringe.
Every time someone laughs at someone else's pain,
I feel their pain as my own,
And I revisit past pain of my own.
They think they're being funny, I think they're being scum.
They feel amusement, I feel fear and rage.
It's just my war wounds acting up,
PTSD flashbacks from the battlefield of my childhood,
The shells and mortars and bullets of peer abuse.
Elementary school, where being different makes you a target,
Everyone declaring war on the weird kid,
Who now has to cross no-man's land for 8 hours
Before returning to the safety of the bunker.
Teachers were like non-combatant civilians on the field,
Mostly useless whether they were on your side or not;
Asking them for help only drew more enemy fire,
And some of them were traitors to the cause.
I had no brothers in arms in the trenches; it was just me.
My leaders didn't even know I was at war, at first,
And didn't provide many munitions or barbed wire when they found out.
It wasn't malice, only helplessness and ignorance;
Their economy was unprepared for war,
And they weren't on the front lines, they didn't know the stakes.
And it's hard to support the troops when they can't give you good intel,
Because they're a shell-shocked child too scared to speak.
Then, after years of safety at home, suddenly there's constant noise.
The blaring air raid siren that was my sister,
Always going off for some reason or other.
A different kind of battle, a different kind of enemy,
International war at school, civil war at home.
Supporting the troops was no longer an option,
They were too busy fighting Godzilla
To have a thought to spare for my own war.
And don't even get me started on high school!
Me: genderqueer, androgynous, publicly identified as male.
Them: Sexually harassing me, bullying me, catcalling from cars,
Getting in my personal space, touching me without consent;
All this, and sexual assault (just shy of rape) for four years.
Now I flinch at every touch, and honking cars.
Now I question every compliment, in case it's sarcastic.
Now all whispering people are talking about me,
Or so my brain tells me.
My war wounds act up, and I act out,
Lashing out at the slightest perception of enemy fire,
Making pre-emptive strikes against enemy insurgents,
When I'm not holed up in my bunker or a tank.
“Veteran of the Psychic Wars” by BÖC is my national anthem,
Because “the war still rages on and there's no end that I know,”
And “I can't say if I'm ever gonna be free,”
But their “Sole Survivor” is my “Purple Mountains Majesty.”
