My Dear Child Army

Give me back my child army, our uniforms

scuffed and dirty as we walked along the

outskirts of town. We stared up

at the sun until our minds melted

and we laughed at the shapes in

the shadows, though the dark gave us

nightmares that were staying.

 

Tell those kids we used to be that

there would be jobs that we could

totally see ourselves doing. Lie to them

for me because I can’t manage it through

my tears as I rub my sunburned eyes

like I’m so scared that we’re going to die

when I thought dying would be alright

as a kid.

 

I want to argue logic with people again

like it’s logical to fly without wings for them,

but for me, it’s of the utmost importance that you

need wings to fly. I don’t think you understand

that mine were broken when I was little, so

I can’t stand to see you pretending that you can

when there’s no sense of logic, no sense of

momentum.

 

I want my child army to know that the stone

that we worshipped is still just as powerful,

just as viable to take us to our dreams as the

many nights of drinking that my mental self

does to feel grown up, smoking lightly

on a piece of memory I tied up neatly in paper.

Tell them that the jobs we did were worthwhile

because I swear I wasn’t leading them to the slaughter.

 

But I’m damned because that’s where we went

and we were just harmless kids.
With swords and spears.
With hatred on our tongues and fear on our lips.

And I’ll stand alone here. I’ll stand to atone.

Author's Note

I'll take anything you have to offer

Reviews

[C.E.M.]

I think, in our hearts, we never lose the child we were. We actually use the child we were. I see it here, in your writing, in the playful way you describe the shadow, in the notion of flight without wings. But you also use your adult sadness - the reality that you now know bites back like alcohol rubbed on a wound. I love that. I think this is an incredibly tender piece, that will probably go over a lot of heads. Good work.