firework

black, hot pain

By Anna Lundy CookPublished 11 months ago • 1 min read

was another time.

i was another place.

i was dull.

i didn't understand.

i was sacrificed.

i was broken.

i was bloodied.

i didn't know.

i was innocent.

i was hands stained red.

i was screaming.

i didn't mean to.

Hannah E. Aaron11 months ago
This is a striking poem. The image of “i was hands stained red” is incredibly vivid!

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