They tell you war is hell.
They tell you that all the devils are here on earth.
It’s not a coincidence.
When you spend long enough in hell,
one day you look in the mirror and wonder
when the horns stopped looking new.
Oh, my heart aches for the child you once were.
You should have lain on the grass, laughing—
should have eaten cinnamon bungs in the afternoon—
now you have everything a child could want
and you run off to die for one last taste of death.
She’s gone, and killing won’t bring her back.
Dying won’t bring her back.
Your heart takes chunks out of itself
as everyone you love disappears,
not as heroes, but victims.
Did you even have time to scream?