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In February your mouth isn't so dry,
yet your pretend clothes have these
irksome bloodstains.
Why'd you fire the gun
if it'd be a bother?

You remember your pupils
larger than your head. And your sweat
drinking your body. You'd have given your badge
and hands for those nights,
spilled over like divine light
drowned your skin.

And you flushed the pills to bring manna
back to home. Yet providence proves
draining. So you grab your unusual-issue firearm
and wring safety from the enemy
who wear such distracting screams.
Still, there's a cut at your thumb, spewing your boredom

on every scene. You're given five beatings and two
murders before they knock you with
paid leave. So you can let the blood soak through,
or trade your spit for some
addy eyes.