Chameleon in Combat

By Brooke Coulter

There is a war going on inside of my head. I’m either high on serotonin, Or cemented down in bed.

Sometimes the gunfire blocks my ability to speak. I’m a silent machine, My weakness is mystique.

Sometimes bullets fly over my head, as if I am invisible. I’m either a savant or an idiot, But never an individual.

Sometimes I thirst to perform onstage, but without any clothes. Thinking that maybe the world would treat me differently, If my skeleton were exposed.

Or maybe they’d treat me differently, If I were a little boy who loved trains. Instead of a chameleon in combat, Fighting the war within my brain.