I came into this world screaming.
And every day has been nothing but a war ever since.
I often feel the blood seeping—
From my mother’s hands,
Into the soil, on my clothes, and in the meat they ask me to mince.
They drop grenades every day,
“Smile a little more” is the most common,
And I think they like leading my resolve astray,
Muffling my mother’s voice
As they label my becoming an omen.
The fires stretch along the horizon,
The smoke fills my lungs.
When I hand them the cauldron,
My mother’s voice,
A bell that rung.
Sometimes I trace my calloused hands,
As I peek out at the open sky.
I think of a possibility—
Where I’m in the stands,
And I hear my mother when she says,
“To try.”
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