Stop turning reunions into propaganda. Stop framing war as a love story with a happy ending-flags waving, babies lifted high, orchestral music swelling in the background like this is a movie and not the aftermath of organized violence.

You want to feel something pure? You want catharsis? You want to believe in heroes?

𝗙𝗶𝗻𝗲. 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗽𝗿𝗲𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝘄𝗿𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗲𝗻 𝗶𝗻 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗿𝗲𝗳𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗸 𝗮𝘁.

That man walking off the plane-the one you're sobbing for, the one you're calling a hero, the one whose sacrifice you're honoring with your tears and your signs and your carefully choreographed gratitude-

𝗛𝗲 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗻𝗮𝗶𝗹𝘀 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘄𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗵 𝗼𝘂𝘁.

Not metaphorical blood. Not abstract casualties. Not "collateral damage" sanitized into statistics.

Real blood. From real bodies. Bodies with faces, with names, with mothers who also waited at airports that will stay empty forever.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝗹𝗹𝗼𝘄 𝗣𝗿𝗮𝘆𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗳 "𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗬𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗦𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲"

We say it reflexively, automatically, like a prayer we've memorized without understanding the words.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲, 𝗲𝘅𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗹𝘆, 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿?

Service to 𝘸𝘩𝘰? Service to 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? Service in the name of 𝘸𝘩𝘪𝘤𝘩 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘰𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘢𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘨𝘶𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 𝘧𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘥𝘰𝘮?

Because here's what "service" actually means:

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗶𝗹𝗹 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝗼𝗹𝗱.

You don't ask why. You don't question the intelligence that may or may not be accurate. You don't evaluate whether this target is actually a threat or just someone in the wrong place when the wrong people made the wrong decision.

You point. You shoot. You confirm the kill. You move to the next grid coordinate.

𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁'𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲.

You break whoever they point at. You silence whoever gets in the way. You follow orders that turn human beings into objectives, towns into targets, families into acceptable losses.

You don't get medals for mercy. You don't get commendations for hesitation. You don't get promoted for asking too many questions about who you're actually killing and why.

𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗳𝗶𝗿𝗺𝗲𝗱 𝗸𝗶𝗹𝗹𝘀.

For body counts. For missions completed. For doing what you were told without letting empathy slow you down.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗪𝗲 𝗪𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗔𝗱𝗺𝗶𝘁 𝗧𝗼

And we clap.

We line the streets and wave our flags and chant like we're at a football game and not celebrating people who've been trained to kill efficiently and without question.

We cry. We hug them tighter for surviving the slaughter.

But we never-𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿-ask who didn't survive them.

We don't ask about the wedding party that was drone-struck because someone thought they saw weapons. We don't ask about the children who were in the building we leveled. We don't ask about the women who were raped, the civilians who were tortured, the villages that were burned because they might have been harboring enemies.

𝗪𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝗸 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘄𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄.

Because if we know-𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸-then we can't keep crying at the reunions. We can't keep pretending this is about honor and sacrifice and protecting freedom.

We'd have to admit what it actually is: 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘁𝗲-𝘀𝗮𝗻𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗲𝗱 𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝗱𝗿𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝘂𝗽 𝗶𝗻 𝗰𝗲𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘆 𝘀𝗼 𝘄𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗮𝘁 𝗻𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗚𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗧𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗛𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗧𝗼𝗼

Every soldier who returns comes back with ghosts.

Not PTSD-though that too, that clinical label we slap on the aftermath like it explains anything.

I'm talking about the 𝙖𝙘𝙩𝙪𝙖𝙡 𝙜𝙝𝙤𝙨𝙩𝙨. The ones clinging to their boots. The faces they see when they close their eyes. The screams that echo when it gets too quiet.

The child who ran toward them thinking they were there to help.

The mother who begged in a language they didn't understand.

The old man who was just in his own home when it became a combat zone.

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝘀𝗲 𝗴𝗵𝗼𝘀𝘁𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗹𝗱𝗶𝗲𝗿 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲.

They sit at the dinner table. They ride in the passenger seat. They show up in dreams that turn every night into a warzone all over again.

And no shower, no medal, no "thank you for your service," no parade, no therapy session, no amount of grateful tears from strangers who have no idea what they're thanking-

𝗡𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗶𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗰𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗻.

𝗪𝗮𝗿 𝗜𝘀 𝗮 𝗠𝗮𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗲, 𝗡𝗼𝘁 𝗮 𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗮𝗹 𝗔𝗰𝘁

Here's what we don't want to admit:

𝗪𝗮𝗿 𝗶𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗻𝗼𝗯𝗹𝗲. 𝗜𝘁 𝗻𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻.

War is a 𝘧𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺. An 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘺. A machine that takes human beings and processes them into commodities-𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘱𝘰𝘯𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘯𝘥, 𝘤𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳.

It takes sons and sharpens them into steel. It takes their empathy and replaces it with efficiency. It takes their dreams of heroism and turns them into nightmares they'll carry forever.

It takes daughters-not just the ones who enlist, but the ones in the countries we invade-and turns them into collateral. Into statistics. Into acceptable losses. Into bodies we don't have to see because they're on the other side of the world and the other side of our comfortable denial.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘀 𝗮𝘁 𝗵𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝘂𝗿𝗻𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗵𝗲𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀.

The ones who never enlisted but wave flags with the same fervor they wave foam fingers at sports games. The ones who support the troops but not enough to question what we're asking them to do. The ones who salute murder as long as it's dressed up in uniform and we can call it honor.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗖𝗼𝗺𝗳𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗗𝗲𝗻𝗶𝗮𝗹

Don't lie to yourself. Don't perform this patriotic theater and pretend it's love.

You're not honoring sacrifice. You're celebrating that the violence happened to 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘦𝘭𝘴𝘦.

You're grateful-not that they served, but that you didn't have to. That your hands stayed clean. That your children's faces aren't the ones in some other country's nightmares.

You cry at the reunions because it makes you feel like a good person. Like you care. Like you're on the right side of history.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗰𝗮𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗼 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀 𝗱𝗼𝗻𝗲.

Crying doesn't bring back the dead. Thanking them doesn't erase the kills. Calling them heroes doesn't make what they did heroic-it just makes it easier for you to live with the fact that you approved of it, funded it, enabled it with your silence.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝘆𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝗡𝗼𝗯𝗹𝗲 𝗩𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲

I know this is uncomfortable. I know you want to believe in something pure.

You want to believe that when we send young people to war, they're defending freedom. That their sacrifices mean something noble. That the death and destruction are justified by some greater good we can't quite articulate but surely exists.

𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗲𝘃𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗲 𝗶𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗲.

And the truth is: most of the people who die in our wars aren't threats. They're just people-people living in countries where we decided our interests mattered more than their lives.

The truth is: soldiers follow orders, and sometimes those orders are based on lies, miscalculations, or political agendas that have nothing to do with defense or freedom or protecting anyone.

The truth is: 𝘄𝗲 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗰𝘁𝘂𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗲𝗻𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘄𝗮𝗿 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲 𝗶𝗳 𝘄𝗲 𝗱𝗶𝗱, 𝘄𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 "𝗦𝘂𝗽𝗽𝗼𝗿𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗧𝗿𝗼𝗼𝗽𝘀" 𝗥𝗲𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗠𝗲𝗮𝗻𝘀

So the next time you see a soldier and feel that urge to say "𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘦"-

𝗣𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲.

Ask yourself what service really means. Ask yourself what you're actually thanking them for.

Are you thanking them for following orders? For killing efficiently? For surviving trauma we can't comprehend? For carrying ghosts we'll never see?

𝗢𝗿 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗱𝗼𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘃𝗶𝗼𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗶𝗱𝗻'𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗼 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘀𝗲𝗹𝗳?

For being the hand that pulled the trigger so yours could stay clean?

For shouldering the moral weight of killing so you could keep believing we're the good guys?

Because if that's what you're thanking them for-if that's what "service" means-

𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗮𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝘁.

Thank them for the women they broke.

Thank them for the children they buried.

Thank them for the villages they destroyed.

Thank them for the families they erased.

Thank them for doing the dirty work of empire while you waved flags and pretended it was heroism.

𝗧𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘄𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗼𝘄 𝗲𝗮𝘀𝘆 𝗶𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗹𝗮𝗽 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲 𝗶𝘁.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗛𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻𝘀 𝗕𝗲𝗻𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗨𝗻𝗶𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗺

I'm not saying soldiers are evil. I'm not saying they're monsters.

I'm saying they're 𝗵𝘂𝗺𝗮𝗻 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀 who were put in an impossible situation and did what they were trained to do.

Some of them believed they were doing the right thing. Some of them joined because they had no other options-no money for college, no jobs in their hometown, no way out except through the military.

Some of them carry crushing guilt. Some of them wake up every night drowning in the memory of what they did. Some of them drink or self-medicate or can't hold down relationships because the ghosts are too loud.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗳𝗲𝗲𝗹 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗮𝘁 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝗻𝘆𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲. 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗺𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗯𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝗴𝗶𝗰 𝗼𝘂𝘁𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗹𝗹.

Because war doesn't just 𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘦𝘴. It kills 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘷𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘪𝘵. It kills the part that 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘴. The part that 𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴. The part that says "𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘳𝘰𝘯𝘨" before pulling the trigger anyway.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗸 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗱𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝘁𝗼𝗼. 𝗪𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗮𝗰𝗿𝗶𝗳𝗶𝗰𝗲.

𝗪𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗪𝗲 𝗦𝗵𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗗𝗼 𝗜𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗮𝗱

Here's what I wish we would do instead:

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝗴𝗹𝗼𝗿𝗶𝗳𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘁.

Stop turning war into a spectacle. Stop making heroes out of people who were sent to kill and told it was noble.

Stop crying at reunions like they're proof that everything worked out fine when the person coming home is shattered and the people they killed aren't coming home at all.

𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗮𝘀𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝘀.

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘳? 𝘞𝘩𝘰 𝘣𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘧𝘪𝘵𝘴? 𝘞𝘩𝘰'𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘥? 𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘥𝘦𝘧𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨?

And if the answers aren't clear, if they sound like propaganda or corporate interests or vague platitudes about freedom-

𝗦𝘁𝗼𝗽 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗶𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗺.

𝗦𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗵𝗼𝗻𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗯𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗰𝗼𝘀𝘁.

Not just the cost to our soldiers-though that matters, and we should take care of them better than we do.

But the cost to everyone else. The civilians. The families. The countries we destabilize. The generations of trauma we create that will ripple out for decades.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗱𝗼𝗲𝘀𝗻'𝘁 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘄𝗮𝘀𝗵 𝗼𝗳𝗳. 𝗜𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗲𝗽𝘀 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱. 𝗜𝘁 𝗯𝗲𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝘄𝗲 𝗯𝘂𝗶𝗹𝗱 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗼𝗻.

And until we're willing to look at that-really look at it, without flinching, without performing gratitude to make ourselves feel better-

𝗪𝗲'𝗹𝗹 𝗸𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝘀𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝗲𝗼𝗽𝗹𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘄𝗮𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝘁 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲.

We'll keep crying at reunions and pretending we're honoring something noble.

We'll keep clapping for blood as long as it's not ours.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗕𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗼𝗻 𝗔𝗹𝗹 𝗢𝘂𝗿 𝗛𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀

So no. I won't stop you from thanking a soldier if that's what you need to do.

But I will ask you to think about what you're really thanking them for.

𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝗜'𝗹𝗹 𝗮𝘀𝗸 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝗼 𝗿𝗲𝗺𝗲𝗺𝗯𝗲𝗿:

Every person who comes home is carrying someone who didn't.

Every medal represents a body.

Every parade celebrates survival built on someone else's death.

Every "thank you" is also an acknowledgment-whether you mean it or not-that we asked them to do something terrible, and they did it, and now we're all complicit.

𝗧𝗵𝗲 𝗯𝗹𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗱𝘀.

The difference is-they had to touch it directly.

We just have to 𝘭𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘵'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦.

And most of us don't even do that.

We just keep clapping.

For everyone who's ever questioned what "support the troops" really means. For everyone who's seen through the propaganda and refused to clap. For everyone carrying the weight of what they did in service of orders they shouldn't have followed. The blood doesn't wash off. But maybe-just maybe-we can stop pretending it was ever clean.

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