lyrical beauty

rooster (v/w)

a/n: this was co-written with the lovely nice_try_giant_worms. *curtseys* the pleasure is all mine <3

trigger warnings: war, death, post-traumatic stress disorder, and suicidal thoughts. approach with caution. it's definitely one of the darkest ones in this collection so far.

tổ cha mày! 

(curse your ancestors!)

—

one, two, one, two

down low, eyes high,

radars tingling with overacute nerve

walking through the forests to the erratic beat of their own juvenile hearts

walking on regardless of sun or storm to the volley of shots in the distance

walking, like ants

and they were just as insignificant

for they were not fighting men, but heavy ideals

constructs that loomed like fallen deities

constructs in the name of an enemy

the enemy who lived in the trees, the canopy overhead, the earth beneath their feet

and inside their heads

always there, always present, always keep your eyes open, boy!

always chanting in the corner and always crouching, waiting to pounce

so the boys whispered unsure hymns to prop up their leaden weights

drunk on an all-time high of anxiety and unease

because they taught them how to paint their faces, tie their laces,

polish their boots till they split the cruel sun rays in half,

but no one taught them to straitjacket their shivers, to quell their prickling skin,

to suppress all invasive thoughts of family and normalcy and life

and consume themselves in the ferality of the bloodbath that lay ahead

step by brutal step,

they could already feel their faces melting off

but none of it mattered when

the cause they were fighting for

only thought of them as

disposable.

—

the reaper threw his deathly shadow over every movement

stalking, prowling, pacing in the dark

taking on the form of foreign curses silently sworn,

taking on the form of humans, humans with futures,

humans with families impatiently waiting and praying for their safe return

but that could easily be forgotten

after all, hadn't the enemy forgotten about his future too?

and as sure as the bombs kept claiming names,

and the bullets kept kissing and taking home his friends,

time ticked faster, faster, devastatingly faster,

and the enemy kept attacking relentlessly, pummel after pummel

not because of who he was

but the flag he fought under

reason left both sides ages ago

only spitefulness kept the spirits high

the uncertainty a cruel master; taught the men anguish and misery

crawling, kicking, screaming in tainted guerrilla glory

for the fight was no longer about action but name

as bullets rain down in ricochets of damnation

as blood drips down with the weight of a silence

as questions pierce faster than artillery fire

what am i doing here?

watching my friends die.

—

and only after years the realisation comes

the guilt kicks in like a heavy sleeping pill

paralysing all reason

because what could he have done to prevent any of it?

but that doesn't matter, if only i tried harder, fought better...

his heartbeat is too loud, wailing sirensong in his ears,

maybe they wouldn't have been dead, maybe if i had taken that shift it would have been me instead of him...

everything that happened

happens over and over again

in his head, a terrible shadow-play on repeat

his wife and his kids and even the birds in the blasted garden

feel like strangers

better acquainted with death than with safety

take me! why won't you take me?

midnight thoughts winning every night

why can't you stop? why won't you make it end?

dawn always comes too late

i  s a i d  m a k e  i t  e n d

but when it does there's finally enough light

to pretend it will be alright by sunset

and recall the words his therapist said

repeat after me:

i have done and seen horrible things,

but humans are fundamentally good.

and i am one of them despite everything.

i deserve to be alive.

i do.

—

they sought to put out his flame and fire

make him bleed, take him higher

than the peroxide sun that burnt above

a stinging satire of bloodied landlove

yet when the fields are cleared and the battle is done,

his name is nothing more than a mercenary 'here lies' in cold stone,

dust scraping fingerprints off the land and the head

yet blood still rains

down on these barren plains

stains two tattered cloths ever red.

—

chiến tranh. 

(war.)