Serve, break, vanish. The fine print is in blood.
Write. Laugh. Hope.
They promised you a future.
College. Respect. Belonging.
Structure for the chaos. Escape from the past.
A brotherhood. A purpose. A paycheck.
A flag big enough to wrap your pain in and call it pride.
But they didn’t mention the small print.
Not until you’d signed your name next to a weapon.
Not until your trauma had a serial number.
They don’t tell you the truth—that the military doesn’t recruit the strong.
It recruits the stranded.
The broke, the broken, the boys with no backup plan.
The girls trying to outrun violence by turning it into a uniform.
They don’t talk about what happens after.
After the war. After the medals. After the commercials end.
No one films the nightmares.
The VA waitlists.
The suicide notes in dress blues.
The families torn by invisible wounds.
You become a photo in a frame,
a walking headline they scroll past on Veterans Day.
Because you served, you broke… and then you vanished.
The same system that promised transformation
called your PTSD a personality flaw.
Told you your anxiety was dishonorable.
Left you begging for help like it was contraband.
They say “thank you for your service”
but they won’t pay for your therapy.
They stand for the anthem
but not for your eviction notice.
They wave flags
but not medical records.
Let’s say it plain:
This country uses people like batteries.
And when your power runs out, you’re replaced, not repaired.
Write. Laugh. Hope.
Because if they won’t remember you, we will.
