We collected each other’s blood
and spread it like camouflage across our cheeks.
We fought like toy soldiers
until we were the only battered,
bruised ghosts in the toy-box.
And the smoke rose so high
that the day morphed into night.
So we lay down and heard someone say, “Sleep.”
But our wounds wept and our eyes stung
from the fire we created.
And some pessimist cried and another wept.
So we echoed, “Sleep,”
as we fumbled among the ashes
for each other’s hand.
And we held on as tight as we knew how,
as if that alone could spare us
from our ugly fate of repetition.