I am peeling like nicotine soaked wallpaper, once stretched across a bare clean wall. I discentegrate, and I wish I could light myself aflame like a cigarette during the long day at the shitty gas station I subjected myself to. Every two hours, like clockwork. I would sit on the grate and see the world spin around me for the breif 10 minutes I have. sitting outside with each inhale and exhale of the smoke I ponder if any of the useless trudging forward was of any value. if the battles ive won thus far were worth the bloodshed. sometimes the answer is yes, that I fought valiantly and earned the right to live, but then I think of the young men slain beneth the feel of a soldier, the sniper with someone looking back at him, how can battle be beautiful? how is the carnage a rain of valiance and bravery, but the shower of sorrow is unsung.