A/N: Written for the Diversity Writing Challenge, a12 – freeverse poetry
From Straws to a Flame
Her skin crawled at the very thought
but still she longed for it, and here was a chance
grasped in her hands: straws
that could become a flame if only they'd catch light
and burn – burn strong
And here were straws in her hands: a red warrior
offering her sword, to make that wish of hers reality
despite that crawling, those insects crawling
over her rotting corpse – it wasn't a rotten dream!
It was not! She wanted friends so desperately
and she could have them. She could.
It wasn't a bad thing. Nothing bad had happened
because of them. No warping faces laughing at her.
No jeering voices ridiculing behind her back
after offering a kindly hand.
No. All of that was false. The prickling faded as her wish
was accepted, was added to the sword.
It was possible. It was.
Her wish wasn't her coffin, wasn't a fool's
and it would come true.