Reflections of a retired Army Combat Uniform that never saw combat
Is this all there is? Oh my ... I think this is all there is.
I was born to be a warrior. My maker designed me in the ashes of 9/11 to fight terrorism. When I was young, I imagined that a soldier would pick me up at the Central Issue Facility. He would be a private, or maybe a specialist, and I would accompany him on his first deployment. I would shield him from scrapes and fires. I would provide him warmth, protection, and comfort.
My life has killed that dream.
I was recently retired, and the only combat I ever saw was paintball at a birthday party. And now, I am a featured element of Mrs. Markson’s boudoir photo shoot. I am a prop, a sexualized object through which her bosoms and her booty can peek-a-boo for her husband’s pleasure. She even bought those high-waisted green lace panties from Aerie to compliment the colors of the camouflage. An absolute insult.
What has become of me?
I hate myself. I see photos of my brothers and sisters in battle, fighting with every stitch of their being…
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