Dear Agony,

                        Okay, here goes nothing. I'm going to tell you everything. I don't need your judgement, your pity, or your typical sarky comments. Ka peesh (I hope to god you get what that word is, it's four in the morning and I refuse to google it for fear of what'll come up on my suggested.)

It all started a few years ago, I don't remember exactly when. I was deployed to Iraq for my second tour. 

I didn't come back the same. 

I know you must be rolling your eyes at me right now, muttering to yourself about how 'Poetry Boy is a stupid fuck who seems too ignorant to comprehend PTSD', but this was different. Is different. Of course, like all of my other surviving comrades, my nights were filled with gun shots, painful cries and the distinct thump of a dead friends body, and they still are. I came home carrying more baggage than the others. I swear I'm not trying to make myself sound better than I am, because god I couldn't even convince a nun I'm an innocent. 

I was sent home a year ago, after a bomb exploded right under my feet. Immediately I knew something was wrong - I felt cold and warm, light and dark, luminous and camouflaged all at the same time. This new me was a whole jumble of juxtaposition, and altered not only my internal body but my external body too. 

I'm so glad you can't see me. 

Many children have cried at the sight of my face, hiding their scrunched up faces in the crooks of their parents legs, trying to erase the image of the monster from their heads. Their parents reactions were to be expected - gawping, and after a second of being mesmerised by the grotesqueness of my corrupted body they'd hurry their kids away with the promise of ice cream. Adults have openly stared at me, then as soon as I'd catch their intrigued eyes they'd avert their gaze. 

I don't think I've had a real conversation with someone since I got back. Unless you count my therapist, but she's so fake and you can tell most of the things she says is the same thing she tells her other patients, all of it scripted in her mind. I wouldn't be surprised if she has a list of things to ask, that only consisting of two questions - 'how does that make you feel' and 'why do you think you feel this way.' I don't know lady, that's what I'm paying you for! 

Sorry for the rant. I always get really mad when I talk about my therapist, which I don't think is a healthy reaction. But oh well, nothing about me is healthy. 

I've had enough of me talking. I want to hear something about you, like if you have any kids or if you have a lucky lady or lad somewhere in the many crevices of the world. Tell me something to distract me. 

From,

            Aaron.