A warrior facade, that’s what they call it

in the daytime, the mask you put on, a scowling

bucket of crickets or something, crush in’ ‘em

to see killing as an art installation, scowl it off

the nothing you learn, tell yourself

the world is combat, in its heart and soul, if not

its bones, because it seems that some don’t have

to fight for everything, mirror eyes

are the only real

honest to god opponent, that you do and should fight

with pliers and a blowtorch, a couple pipe

hitters, the killer version, a phalanx

amassed on my borders, boxing me in

the tunnel to a nothing monster, I hope one day

I will grow past anger, for now it’s what’s there.