I look to the cracks of a crescent moon
for reassurance, for an unadulterated
comfort that will break the plate of
guilt that has formed itself around my
soul. I can fix the gaudy chips with a
stern ire and rocket-fuelled fire that
propels me into the molten core of
truth. I will not waver for droogs
or the ruth…less. I will stand strong
in the face of those who do me wrong.
Writing myself back alive is my kind
of revenge—a dish best served wordy.
I am a firecracker. I am a hurricane
with an all-seeing eye cloaked in a
bog of smoke. Feel my wrath like an
ulcer taking refuge in your throat.
You will not shoot me down. You
will not give me a crown and expect
me not to wear it. I will write myself back
alive, and your knife will take a nosedive.
We must, weld our broken parts back together, endure through these, flames of our own, trials, to finally, know, that, we are, capable, to prove to our own selves, that we’ve, survived.