#draft dodger

[Text ID: Draft Dodger by Cain Birch. I am a man by most means, mediums, measures. But the law leaves me out; it doesn’t want my boots on the ground, doesn’t recognize my manhood. I’m grateful: that there is no slim chance, no open window or cracked door, that I’ll be shipped off to murder, boxed up to butcher. I skirted the tragedies of boyhood, the relentless teasing and awkward boners, the fistfights and choked-back-down tears. The guilt rains down heavy, like endless rounds of gunfire, that I got off easy, that my knuckles never bruised. I huddled in wait for my moment, patient sniper on the battlefield, my weapon my needle, my ammo my medicine. My target was camouflaged in a sea of crew cuts. The boy bestowed me his boots and haircut; I blessed him with an exit wound the moment I came of age. The guilt dies with the memories that rush thick and fast: phantom knives ripping through my abdomen, rape whistles for Christmas, a self-defense class that taught me how to bring a man to his knees when he palms your breast. Girlhood was a battlefield, and there was no draft. /End ID]

Put Aside Politics & Decide For Yourself, who's Really Deranged Here.