I haven't seen myself as this in a long time.
I've been over-executed and abused,
And my body is perforated by all your bullets,
But I can't stop the war in me . . . in you,
Like I can't make a deal with my enemies.
I've considered being a refugee, alone and far away,
And starting my own Revolution, as abstract as it can be.
But if I can't do that, I'll purposely get shot again,
In the leg, so I can physically feel what I feel inside.
Too late, I lie here, hurt inside-out,
Thinking it all over again and again,
Asking myself: "Did I really want to go to war?"

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