War Zones

You call this a morning commute?

I call it boarding a cattle car to the abattoir.

I step out my front door and the air tastes like rust

and the bitter ash of other people’s ruined lives.

Don’t talk to me about patience.

Don’t tell me to breathe.

Every street is a sniper’s alley,

every glowing screen a mortar shell

bursting with demands, deadlines, and debt.

They sit in glass towers, spinning their wheels,

while the rest of us dodge the crossfire

just to buy a loaf of bread.

I’ve got shrapnel in my teeth from biting my tongue.

I’ve got third-degree burns from the friction

of smiling when I want to scream.

You want a survivor? Look at my knuckles—

whitened into bone, clenched so tight

they might shatter into dust.

You think you can break me with your rules?

Your sirens? Your endless, blaring red tape?

I am already walking through the minefield.

I am already bruised, bloodied, and breathing fire.

So step out of my way.

I didn’t ask for this war,

but by God,

I am done ducking.