so I become this wrought iron
that I have forged with my own two hands.
I sharpen myself,
tip to hilt.
but
my mouth,
the very blade that can cut the sky,
chose to speak in a healers' tone instead.
I remind myself
of the violence it took
to become 
this gentle.
this cup of earth in my hands,
with home beneath
my fingernails.
I remind myself
what it means to be
pierced to the marrow
...

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