A/N: Yes, a satirical poem that compares war to marriage, and yes, I'm probably going to hell for it. Either like it or don't. I don't mind either way.
He wakes up in Vietnam every night,
boot-clad feet trudging over mined ground,
trigger finger numb, back sore,
fatigue drenched from the monsoons,
and he prays to go home to her.
He finds himself next to her every morning,
dark bags under her eyes telling him
his twitching kept her awake again.
At breakfast she throws the dishes
like she's done many times before,
and cries as the china shatters against the wall.
"Is there anything more destructive
than war?" she asks, and he looks at her
and says, "Marriage."