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Literature Text
They
encourage me to keep my hands in the scorching fire
- just a little longer -
until I find a better, safer way to roast my food.
And no,
blisters on my hands
and pain in my mind
is not a reason to quit that job.
I should rather develop a proper resistance against fire,
they say.
How much longer
do you suggest I wait?
Would third-degree burns be sufficient?
Or do you want me to go right down to the fourth, bones turning to ash?
You know those can kill, don't you?
...
But you and they forgot:
the bones important here
are not those in my hands.
My backbone snaps back into place,
redrawing my hands.
There's more than enough food,
which I can digest
without roasting.
My mind, freed from pain, will find plenty.
And it will taste so much sweeter
without the bitter burned skin.
encourage me to keep my hands in the scorching fire
- just a little longer -
until I find a better, safer way to roast my food.
And no,
blisters on my hands
and pain in my mind
is not a reason to quit that job.
I should rather develop a proper resistance against fire,
they say.
How much longer
do you suggest I wait?
Would third-degree burns be sufficient?
Or do you want me to go right down to the fourth, bones turning to ash?
You know those can kill, don't you?
...
But you and they forgot:
the bones important here
are not those in my hands.
My backbone snaps back into place,
redrawing my hands.
There's more than enough food,
which I can digest
without roasting.
My mind, freed from pain, will find plenty.
And it will taste so much sweeter
without the bitter burned skin.
Literature
Blood Mother
I love you in your inexistence
rabbit’s ear
baby’s breath
you are dust
but you are
mine.
Misadventures and
dew drop mornings
small curls
large eyes
my bones cannot knit your future.
Sunsets and moonbeams
sleep burdens our eyes
your soft lips sigh
there is a better world for you
than this.
-D.E.M
Literature
mother
mother with whistle, button and mace
drops her weapons to the hospital floor
and screams.
father rejoices - a princess! i'll teach her
everything.
mother still screams.
father, laughing - i pity the boy who asks for her hand.
mother holds baby and shrieks.
father's skin crawls - why aren't you happy?
mother screams. mother howls. mother, inconsolable
(everyone dies but girls are always
born dead)
Literature
Hometown Glory
Once, back when I was in school, the teacher played us an old song from back before America collapsed and Panem was formed. It was called, if I recall correctly, Hometown Glory. I had long ago forgotten the tune and words, but I remembered the name. I also remembered that the teacher explained to us that a hometown used to mean the place where a person grew up, where his or her roots were. Memory is a strange thing.
It was that song title I was thinking of when I heard that Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark were coming back to Twelve. Our hometown glories. This year, all of Twelve had watched the Games with bated breath, instead of our
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To those peeking in from the outside, thinking they figured you all out, telling you what is best for you, denying your own thoughts. To those that tell you to "hold through just a little longer" when you know this is the last exit you can, must take to survive, to live.
© 2013 - 2024 Story-of-a-Mind
Comments12
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This is really interesting!