To my soldier

Buckshot litters my tights
But nothing compares
To my cardiac shrapnel,
My raven-inked cheeks,
From the countless times
You made me feel unworthy,
As if a mere peasant in your grace.

If I can survive the grenade
That was you abandoning me
In a foreign territory
For strangers to deprive me of sleep,
To rip away any and all sensation,
I can outlast a few graze wounds.

It's taken years to get past
The PTSD that was your declarations.
Every shred of my being
Has had to scrape the theatre floors
In search of a morsel
Of the self-worth you
Completely obliterated;
Though that's likely
My being too sensitive.