(You served your country. They ghosted your wounds.)
Write. Laugh. Hope.
They called you a hero—
until it was time to help you.
Then came the long waits,
the denied claims,
the bureaucratic shrugs wrapped in red, white, and blue.
You gave your body.
You gave your mind.
You gave years you can’t get back.
And when you came home?
You got a bumper sticker and a hotline that rings too long.
PTSD doesn’t care about politics.
Trauma doesn’t wait for funding cycles.
And thank-you-for-your-service doesn’t treat a damn thing.
They celebrate your bravery
at halftime shows and barbecues—
but where are they
when you’re battling flashbacks at 2 a.m.?
Or begging the VA for meds you should’ve had weeks ago?
You didn’t just fight a war.
You came home to another one.
You’re not ungrateful.
You’re unpaid. Unseen. Unhealed.
Parades end.
Wounds don’t.
Write. Laugh. Hope.
Because what the hell else is there?
