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
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.