The shattered pieces of my psyche scatter across the arid land as a result of the unspeakable horrors witnessed after months of containment.
I attempt to pick up a shard only finding my hand to become ravaged like the men around me.
The blood of a broken soldier dampens the soil, the first liquid to drench the land in months.
The pieces, jagged and cold, refused to fit together as they once did leaving broken pieces of my brain and my heart sharp and contorted.
Society glances upon these broken areas when I return home, and while I attempt to try to hide these deficiencies with layers of cold, scathing words, they see right through the facade and attempt to console me.
My mind refuses to allow it waking up during lonely nights, tremoring from an unseen monster.
They give me medication, dull pills that soften my mind on a daily basis.
As I try to go on everyday, the remains of my soul knows what I've seen will haunt me to the day I die.
With the cost of war proving to be too much to take, Amercian society needs to increase awareness of the thousands of veterans suffering from PTSD. After their sacrifices, it is up to us to give them the strength to go on.