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Poetry

Burn

You will not singe me, more.

You will not burn me,

never another day.

And I know this is me:

a child who clings to life

within the depths of an ancient fire.

And I know this is me:

still aching from the searing

wilderness of you.

And I know this anger roars

like a storm in my centre,

and I know

and I know this.

I know.

I must allow the burn

to release me from your grip.

By brookecutler2

Liver of life, lover of everything. 💕

3 replies on “Burn”

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