27 February 1989

The mud sucks at my feet
like a baby searching for nourishment
The heat sticks to me,
fly on fly paper
I don’t like it here

My best friend now is
in a peanut butter jar —
all that’s left after the
mine blew yesterday
I don’t like it here

I now take his place on point
fear sweats through my pores,
soaking my fatigues,
my thin hands
I don’t like it here

I believe in hell
for I am here now
The flies bite, the mosquitoes fight them
for the blood I am so unwilling to give
I don’t like it here

My tour ends in a month,
if I make it, this is the
second time I’ve chickened out
of going home.  Maybe I’ll stay
I don’t like it here