ptsd

whispers in the sun
tell us to shirk our duties and
roll on out, friend,
roll on out.
i couldn't raise my hands above my head today
but i've never shot a gun
or gotten my fingers splintered with
sleep, acid-washed jeans
and a bomber jacket that gives me memories
that i can't recall.
i once ate dinner in this hall,
but it was a while ago and honestly
if i can still hear the bombshells
then maybe i'm not here at all.
i want to be an actor
but respectable
and artful
and warmer inside.
i think that's a paradox but
i'm willing to commit to knives in my hand,
heart in my eyes,
and never living up to promises, just so i have
another
way to call myself strange.