It is nigh on impossible

To creep about at night, desperately trying not to wake your parents, when you are wearing four dog tags 

Chained about your neck like a claim to life

And three of them are entirely unnecessary, and you are wishing fervently that you had not wistfully clasped them on earlier that day;

But it is far too late and too quiet now to remove them, and so you walk like a swaying tree

Leaned back, tilted crazily

Trying to keep the jangly bits of metal pinned to your chest,

Silenced by their imprisonment against cotton t-shirt,



Wishing — ever so fervently that the tiny beast that guards your parents’ room will not launch into a fit of yowling at the sound of your 



about in the hall. 

(Go to sleep now, you tell yourself! No more poetry — the night is sick of you!)


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