Dead children. Blubbery baby bodies. Once warm, now cold. Still. Not ghosts, dead souls.

Forests. Rot. Lungs filled with mud. Children. Children with rifles, wearing the camouflage uniform of death. Death’s uniform clinging to their baby skin, glued with last night’s rain. I fill the slide with bullets and guilt. They’re too small. Too small for war. Too small for their boots. Too small for death. Just too big for innocence.

Women. None in site, just lingering in my mind. America’s daughters are home. Rosie the Rivieter has no place here. “Miss. Miss Miss. ” I don’t know which women or Miss, mistress even, they’re calling out for until they manage to “hit”

Miss. Miss. Miss. Hit. Miss. Hit. Hit Hit. Hit. Dead. Dead. Dead. The guy next to me. Dead. My soul. Dead. My cigarette. Dead. Non existent, my tears. No time.

Rivers. Roads. Roaring leaves. Thunder Bee’s. Thunder T’s. And kids, always kids. Kids now in the forest aiming their guns at younger kids. Boys. Metal cans clutched to their chests like stuffed animals. Could be chemicals. Could be juice. Could be Agent Orange. Could be hell. Could be heaven. Who knows. Not them, they’re children. Children unraveled. Children unmade. Not soldiers.
Children. They’ve assualted the children and turned them into assault rifles. Pulled form reccess and into permenant rest. I want to know whose idea it was to pluck these children. Who is this cruel, efficient genius?

War. It’s not just here. It’s in us. Planted in our skulls like blooming flowers, every memory a landmine. No good memories on the front line, just tucked in the back. Memories of my kids.

My Kids. They’re home with pillow forts. Watching a dancing sailboat Mickey. Pretending the floor is lava while I’m stuck in lava mud. That’s who I’m fighting for. Them. Or it was, anyways. At the beginning. Now I fight for someone named survival. I’m fighting this boy. This boy who should be in love, getting married in a decade. Laughing on the playground. Anything other than this.

Ten. What was I doing at ten? Dancing? Daring? Dreaming? Drumming? Not dying. Not falling like dominoes with every bullet. Not becoming a tiny red firework. If I died at ten, I would have had a funeral. They have no funeral. No grave. Just mud. Dirt. Earth.

Lost. Not this war, but the one in my mind. The soldier up there bled out quickly and quietly with regret. It was a reason of weakness. I survived. He didn’t.
Forget the kids. They’re enemies. Targets. Silhouettes in a training manual. Anything that makes sleep come a little easier.

Married. I was married to the war, but one day I wokr up divorced. It left me, or I left it. On a plane. Divorced, but in a custody battle of my mind. It’s strong perfume still clinging to my skin.

The past? Gone. Burned up in a field I’d die to forget. Others. Brothers. Stayed behind, now ash. Eternal ash.

Land. No parades. No welcome. No banners. Just the shouts.

“Criminal!”

“Enemy!”

“Murderer!”

“Coward!”

“Child Killer!’

America’s daughters. The ones I was sent to protect. The ones who sent me. I thought they were wrong, that I was on the right side. Until my children run into my arms, soft innocent baby skin.

Enemy. Villain. Synonymous with me. The war followed me home. It hid, bundled up in the murky muddy swamp in my chest. I’ve helped sneak over an illegal.

I thought it would outgrow this place in my chest, but we don’t outgrow war. War outgrows us.

Courtney Roberts (she/her) is an English Studies major at Ball State University. Passionate about writing, Courtney explores social issues, human experiences, and the things that keep her up at night. She has previously been featured in New Voices and in Subliminal Surgery. In her free time, you can find her sipping on coffee, puzzling, or rocking out with her 3 year old cat, Luna Lou. TikTok