I bled out
in the desert
when the car exploded
and took my arms and legs.

Shipped me home
in the night,
buried
on the front page
under the word
HERO.

Don't know about that, though,
I just drove a truck,
never shot anyone
couldn't drink a legal beer.

I'm glad I died,
I don't have to be there anymore;
but I'd go back if I could,
at least until
my friends
escape.

That's all that matters;
it's all that ever mattered,

whatever lives
we once had
became so far gone and distant
they seem like old dreams
you eventually
don't remember.

I'm not complaining,
or scared
or feeling fucked over.
It's nice here;
I can't get blown up
anymore.