I Write Poetry

I have no idea how to end this. Eh whatever.

She wants to be a doctor;
she sticks needles into
tinfoil dolls.

“Soldier” was the name
she gave to one of her patients.
She peeled a slice of clay
suffocating his head,
and said “one less.”

“sorry” I wailed,
as incense burned,
houses followed, the smoke
clawing my eyelids apart.
My eyes sweat;
my heart boils.

She is there too,
twirling in her bullet stained dress,
whispering to me, “one less.”