3/10/2021 I want pink hair and hand tattoosI left my home at eighteen for men who screamed relentlessly and ill-fitting boots that left my feet mangled and torn.
it seemed so glorious from the outside, a sea of uniforms drifting across a field, people crying in the stands. I watched the same clip on replay for months craving the tears that would be falling just for me. I had always been average, even that term is being generous. nothing special in the slightest, all I wanted was for someone to cry for me. they did cry for me eventually. ‘America the Beautiful’ blew through the air and between my skin and the pixelated fabric I had worked so hard to earn, but the glory stopped there. in a day the ‘I made it’ tears turned to ‘when will I see you again’ sobs. it was a short-lived high that died out in minutes and somehow kept declining as my face sunk deeper into the San Antonio soil. I gave up normalcy for thousand-yard stares into my ceiling and reveille disturbing my sleep. my hands were stained green for three months, from the grass presumably. there wasn’t a day where I wasn’t on my face. every morning was the same, a cruel type of deja vu--existential dread followed up with numerous conversations with myself about how I ended up there, missing my mother, and then the day would begin. 568 days have passed since I left my home for women who degrade other women simply because they have authority and boots that are still not broken in. what is there to complain about? I’m writing from somewhere I always dreamed of calling home in a house I get paid to live in and tomorrow I will drive to work at a job that I know I will have for another 893 days. I will blend right into that glorious sea of camouflage and salute people who were once in my shoes until my right arm falls off. but the south has gotten old, the sentiment is gone. reveille doesn’t startle me anymore and the palm trees aren’t surprising. I miss the snow and my mother and the shoebox of a room I thought I had outgrown. I miss being normal, but I swore I would do this. I can still find dried-up Texas mud in the pockets of a uniform I’ve only worn once. sometimes I wish I could return it to its home, but I know if I did, id be too tempted to sink to the ground with it. I would turn to dust eventually and a new wave of starry-eyed trainees would march right over me. ‘America the Beautiful’ would flood the air once more and maybe then the high would start again. Comments are closed.
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