-
- One of the lucky ones,
- but still one of the ugly ones.
- Sat up and burned in my crib
- until the air left my lungs.
-
- My mother, in all her persistence,
- whispered through the bedroom door
- that my fire burned the brightest.
-
- So here I am to recreate my youth,
- my palm turning in the heart of a
midnight flame.
- The sound of wood popping,
- I scream into the ground
- for my mother to lift me up.
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