Conscription and Boyhood

The coarse green fatigues etches away at me, cracking and burning my skin. The hands I once so warmly held are replaced with the cold sternness of pistol grips. Every shot of my gun whips me into form, chipping away the soft ends of me. They hammer hard as the army sculptures another soldier. I've forgotten the lift of careless laughter as these muscles tense and freeze. As we march and our boots thump against hard mud in this dark jungle, I feel this cold settle in and wonder if this is the passing of boyhood.