They say I'm dead.

Standing over my body.

Touching me.

Like I wasn't alive.

I tell them I'm not dead.

Why won't they listen?

They stare at my lifeless form.

Grabbing at the objects that are inside;

My blood stained uniform.

I watch and try to explain.

As the chaplain catalogs each item.

A picture of my girl.

The one I broke into love.

Her belly swollen with our mistake.

A black book.

My only chance for forgiveness.

Denied by a God who would rather see me burn.

Letters telling me to go hell.

By a slut of a mother.

A watch, a buck .79

Falling into line I watch.

As my shell is loaded.

With the fragrant smells of death.

The truck leaves.

I salute.

Then begin my trek to hell.