I thirst for your sweat. Your tears. Your sacred rage at the state of the world. Have you not heard me calling to you in the night, tormenting your dreams, begging for you to awaken? Have I not like the cool breeze caressed your cheeks? Told you that I need you? I want you as I create new worlds.
Instead, you press your uniform. Shine your buttons and your shoes. Yes, Sir. You think that is service. But whom do you serve? Do you serve drug companies and place pills on thousands of wagging tongues? Do you serve oil companies and destroy lives to extract death? Do you serve the elite? They serve their master too. They sacrifice children. Or, they fuck them and make them silent puppets.
I gotta pay the bills, you say. That’s what a man is supposed to do.
Rip off your uniform. Tear your shirt. Show me who you really are, not who you are supposed to be.
Nah. It’s alright, you say, your eyes fixated on Grand Auto Theft. You are in your pimp car and you gotta go and fuck some prostitutes at the strip club. You get points when you kick someone and you get money when you kill. No extra points for the strippers; that’s just for the fuck of it. But it’s all pretend, so it’s alright, you say, just one more mission, to make money.
Except you are needed to do the real mission: save innocent children’s lives. Protect those that birth life. Protect your own seed. Protect it from the chemicals in your deodorant and your smartphone in your pocket, the parts of which were pillaged from the Congo as soldiers raped women, tore open their vaginas, and broke their souls into shards.
The women are gathering the shards. They are making a mosaic. They are screaming and healing and uniting and awakening a force that has been silenced for thousands of years. That’s what happens when the pieces are put back. Moonlight bathes each piece in iridescent holy water. Sunlight shines through the glue.
I would never rape a woman, you say. You wouldn’t. That’s why when the women were taking off their own shiny buttoned Marine Corps uniforms some voyeur took their pictures and posted them online to a group of men who discussed exactly how they’d fuck each one. ‘Cause that’s what boys do.
The Marine Corps says it will attack this problem head-on. Yes, Sir! But, Sir, what military strategy is employed in this situation? Is the attack on sexual predation a chapter in one of your war books at your war school? Did the Quigley prepare you for how to attack the perception that a woman is not human? We all grew up thinking that she is flesh to be consumed. Let the best rifleman step forward and shoot down thoughts.
How long will you try to solve your little boy problems just like your daddy did, with a beating and a disappearing?
Do you really want to know how to attack this problem?
If you truly do, then listen. The answer speaks. She’s in the whisper of the leaves. She’s in the ocean’s tears. She is the dank soil under your feet. She is the Mother Womb that held you before you existed. She is death. She is life. Do you hear what she says?
Listen. She is the space of silence. Do you hear?
Place your hands on your body. Breathe in the parts that hurt. The pain in your back. Your shoulder. Your belly. Feel it. When you are not on your divine mission, it’s supposed to hurt. Put down your pills. Pills were created so that you would never go on your mission. So that you’d be sedated. Like PlayStation. Like Porn. Like Programming. For if you weren’t sedated, you’d destroy them all. All those fuckers that eat children’s souls.
Breathe. Feel you. Feel her. Then, you will hear her say, “Step forward. Go now.” And you will know your mission.
When you do, I will lick your sweat from your bare chest and I shall thirst no more.