March away little soldier,

before trauma becomes a bedtime story,

A tale of how you one day saw

a white maiden, gleaming like porcelain,

turn an ugly shade of brown,

the cloth adorning her virgin breasts torn

and the last strings of her sanity

snapped.

March away little soldier,

before you write about how her voice

turned supersonic,

inaudible-

because the men around you tuned your ears down,

building a soundproof wall around her

the bricks; her dignity

the cement; her suffering.

March away little soldier,

before you become them,

relishing the scarlet wounds

gracing her tainted heart,

she is now like the crushed flower in her palm,

never again fragrant

never again beautiful

enjoyed only for her feel

her torso made a warzone for the likes of those

who had silent mothers

and oblivious fathers.

March away little soldier,

but leave your sister behind,

let her see why the same house is

a prison to her

and a paradise to you.

whisper in her ear,

oh sister mine,

a temple of gold, your body is,

but a shrine, to hearts of love,

is a brothel

to hands of power.

Stay little soldier,

watch their every move,

watch how they forget about their mothers and daughters,

watch how they turn into the monsters they swore to slay,

watch how they pretend to be human,

watch.

because one day, you must become them.

and when you do,

you must do to them,

what they did to us.