by Brooke McCaffrey
There are too many nights when they can't sleep, won't sleep, and shouldn't sleep.
Sleep deprivation is a form of torture,
you know,
and they're doing it to themselves more often than they do it to each other.
They didn’t sleep for a week once,
went insane and chewed on their fingers until blood was hot and coppery on their tongues.
Every second is survivor's guilt.
One of them is too fragile,
hiding behind empty bourbon bottles and loud cars.
His leather jacket smells of blood and oil, and it reminds him of home before it burnt down.
He hopes that if he could just get to sleep,
just close his eyes for more than a moment, he could forget the smell of purgatory,
and the noises the bombs made when they dropped.
The other is held together by scotch tape and glue.
He dreams about men with rotting skin,
and brothers who fall apart in his hands like sand.
He wants to fix the world around him, but he can’t even fix himself.
He wants to prove to them that he’s not a boy king;
he’s a warrior,
he’s a saint,
he’s a damn martyr.
Two brothers in arms; one wants to be taken apart, the other one put back together.
Their names don’t matter, but their smiles do.
They’re both afraid of the open sky,
and they hate how their voices sound in the dark.
“We just want to be remembered,” is what they preach to their empty houses,
to the empty streets,
but the congregation is empty,
and the pews have been collecting dust for years.