Warnings: This deals with content some may not feel comfortable, specifically self-hatred and implied slash. Consider yourself warned. Also, this is all over the place.
Notes: I wrote this piece months ago after a particularly nasty fight with my father. It took place only a few days before he came out to me, but looking back on the poem, I decided that since all was resolved, it would only be right to end it on an honest note. Enjoy.

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I was never good enough for you, was I?
I never lived up to your expectations, did I?

It doesn’t matter now,
Never fucking does. Never fucking will.
And I don’t care, I don’t care,
That you could die in a street, or on an operating table,
Screaming as medics try to staunch the life bleeding from your chest.

Rangers.
Rangers lead the way.

That’s funny because the man I see, the man I remember,
Drinking away the memories of battle at the kitchen table,
Broken and cold-hearted,
Bitter and silent and deadly,
Looks nothing like the men in the posters.

Jimmy, your dearest son, was good enough for you.
Jimmy was the light shining through your dark.

He walks in your shoes.
Marches in your boots down dusty roads in Nowhere, Noplace.
J picks up your rifle and fires your rounds,
Shoots at your enemy and laughs as he falls beneath the lead.
The innocence you have spoiled with stories and photos.

Guess what, pop?
Guess that I’m not part of your army anymore.

The sanctuary, the haven, the escape,
That you could never find in your family.
Only among your brothers did you find peace.
Turning to them to help you along,
And it hurts so fucking bad that it’s always been this way.

Refuse to be in your army.
Refuse to remain in your grips of bone.

This is what you wanted,
To fire that rifle once again into crowds of people,
With cruel, cold bullets that spew from your machine of death,
And end in the heart of a young man, a teenage boy,
Not yet old enough to know the true horrors of war.

It’s after the fight that the death begins.
It’s after the reporters go home, that your own battle begins.

When your family has long since been forgotten,
And your brothers in arms no longer hold your hand,
That you turn to Jack.
Jack and his smooth, cool neck and his hard taste,
His certain ability to raise you up over your thoughts.

Your uniform is getting musty hanging in your closet.
Your boots are dulled, the pair that Jimmy did not take.

The medals on your chest cease to shine.
Stories and photos are not so magical anymore,
Only sad and tragic and everything I don’t want to hear.
But selfless and brave and everything,
That you will always be in the eyes of your sons.

The war in your head kills us too.
The war, it is killing Joey now just as it killed Jimmy and me so long ago.

Hurts us one by one,
Your incapability to share your pain with the rest of us.
The brothers you once held so close to your heart,
Stand back and look behind,
Because you have left them now, as you have left us.

That one perfect shot and you will fall, smell the dusty streets of hell.
That one perfect shot and everything you’ve ever known is gone.

Still you march right on down that street,
Even if it was death you surely faced.
You are Jimmy’s hero, his inspiration and his connection to the world,
But you are stupid and unintelligent for walking towards the end,
Because my heroes never died a willing death.

I want to hate you with everything I’ve got.
I want to wish death upon you and upon the 2nd 75th.

Pray to see the two men, ramrod straight in their Class Bs,
Stand silently on the other side of my door,
Eerie and lethal in the hall’s pale, flickering light.
My laughter sounds like sobs through the thick wood,
And these men bow their heads in habitual respect.

A soft kiss on my forehead spoke the words you could not.
A hand stroking my hair told me you might be okay.

When you left at two in the morning on a Sunday in June,
I always hoped you were leaving Mom for another woman.
Hoped you’d come home late Monday night and everything would be fine,
You smelling of cheap perfume and cigarettes and Jack,
But you’d come home in December, a new battle to drink to.

After you got back from Kuwait, Mom stopped loving you.
After you got back from Somalia, Mom left you and your heart left with her.

When you got back, she left you behind,
In the dusty of streets of hell,
And she had the perfect shot and had taken it.
Jimmy and I wondered why you looked so sad as you packed once again.
We didn’t know you weren’t going to work this time.

Remember Ranger; remember that I offered you alliance.
Remember that I offered you my hand, as comrades, as friends.

I won’t tell you over the phone,
That your dream finally came true.
That your army, your sanctuary, your haven, your escape,
Caught me in its bone-tight grip and kicked me down on the dusty streets of hell.
Refusal, Ranger, I have learned, is always momentary and your army has killed us all.

Ninety days and you’ll be marching through the desert, with your brothers.
Ninety days and you’ll be thinking of your little girl, your little marine.

But then you have found the love, the love of your life in a fellow ranger’s smile,
And his smile is brighter than the sun,
His simple touch making you happier than you have ever been,
As the recollections of sitting there alone,
Disappears in the haze of a sated living room where nothing is real.

And I will tell no one of your secret, of the life you lead that’s made you a better man.
And this between you, you and your best friend of years, and the bottle you haven’t touched in months.