Dear Mother,

I know it has been a long time since I have written to you,
but it is difficult to come up with words after all I’ve done.
I know you were proud of your little boy for becoming a soldier,
but the unfamiliar weight of this gun feels alien.
This bunker is dark, my buddy is distant,
sleep evades me, I am afraid of the dark, you know, don’t you?
The desert sun blazes on, scorching skin and burning bone.
The ones whom we call our ‘enemy’, who wear different uniforms,
salute a different waving cloth, whose tongue we do not know,
but don’t they too wait in bunkers like us?
Don’t they too have proud mothers, like you are to me?
Don’t they too have trouble sleeping?
I pulled my trigger yesterday, mother.
A small piece of metal flew through the man in front of me,
a small picture fell out of his pocket,
with an older woman, a child, an older man.
The picture was now soaked in blood, blood that was shed
because of your son. I said sorry, but the man was too dead to hear.

Love you always,
A Murderer

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