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fire- two years
I did not ask
to be set on fire
these cups of gasoline
were forced into my hands
by strangers;
men in the streets
with cold, rough hands
their anger burning down the back of my throat
(why are they angry? why are they upset? what have I done?)
the matches swallowed in darkness as inside me,
my body implodes
“speak,” they shove me unforgivingly, “speak!”
I cannot
my body is on fire, and I lie in the middle of the street
a war wages in my brain,
guns firing
smoke,
blood I am sure is spilling out of my ears at this point
I cannot move.
two years later,
still stomping out the fires.
the words I have spoken have been dry, cracked and burnt
my mouth tastes like ash and smoke and my throat burns with gasoline
I am stained on the inside, I feel broken and ruined
the men have left the streets- they lost interest
two years
and I am still burning.
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Trauma leaves you burning far after the initial spark happens.