Do not mourn me,
don’t bury me under folded flags and empty words.
Keep your bugles,
keep your polished boots.
That’s for show.
We lived in the dust,
the rust,
the smoke.
Remember the bullshit,
the endless waiting,
the orders that made no sense.
Remember how we laughed anyway—
too loud,
too long,
because if we didn’t,
we’d break.
Tell it straight.
The bad jokes.
The bottles passed around when we shouldn’t.
The fights that started stupid
and ended in blood or laughter.
The nights that chewed us up
and the mornings that spat us out.
Don’t stand stiff at attention for me.
Don’t whisper my name like it’s fragile.
Spit it out.
Shout it.
Wear it like a scar.
Do not mourn me.
I was more than orders,
more than rank,
more than ceremony.
I was one of you.
And if you raise hell loud enough,
I’ll hear it.
