Digging foxholes for plastic army men

in a sandbox that represented my wish

to see my own self-hatred coming,

my traumas tunneled underneath me

destabilizing everything.

That why playing with them

always made things worse.

And when the waters from a garden hose

and a bucket rose and

took us all out

we didn’t congratulate each other

on a war well fought, because some of us

would never get to go home.

Some of us would never be seen again.

Or get to love you.