Firing Squad
Hands tied at the pole, I stand before the firing squad. Soldiers line up in ranks. Family, friends, peers, obscured by the uniform, eyes behind goggles, scowls behind smiles. Guns adorn their backs, each one loaded with love. The order goes out by the general. “To those who are about to die, we salute you” Feeble attempts at salvation. The rope is loose. I could escape anytime. No more pain. No more bullets. No more… Yet, I stand grounded, and my grit my teeth. Not yet. Just a little more. The whistle blows. Whizz. Bang. The bullets come barrelling. The shells are etched with praise, and kind words, ripping shreds through my skin. Psychological warfare by attention. “You did so well” My muscles ache. “I’m so proud of you” A bone breaks. “I love you” My legs shake. I collapse. Drained, and too tired to run. I look at the scars starting to heal. It hurts. It always hurts. So why do I love it still?