but the soldier that’s killing me does

not wear armor

and does not have a gun

and is indistinguishable

he chases my dreams and

follows my steps and

counts my calories for me

the soldier is funny and sometimes

friendly and maybe writes poetry

after the massacre of the soul

and before it

the soldier is not here and he

is not there either

I cannot find my little weapon

of a stone on the way

home to throw it at his face and

smile.

The soldier is not shooting me and

he will never do because he is

not armored and he doesn’t want

to be. He believes in peace and is

a nice guy, but he shoots arrows

at me that no one

not even myself can see.

but the soldier is there

in my shoes and under the bed

in the street and in the passenger

seat in my car and in my imagination

Do you think I’m crazy?