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Burn
March 9, 2021
Once I struck a match on the back of my hand
but I dropped it before the flame burned to the end.
So I stood in the rain and stared into this mirror irony:
I had started a fire in my hand yet I was afraid when it returned.
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This poem was a bitter observation of the human nature. In the matter of those couple seconds, I understood the position of my abusers. The irony in choosing to create something, and then fearing the repercussions that may come in consequence. Who initiated the flame did not care for the cause
and effects, and in that moment, standing alone in the rain, I understood.