In my past life, I must have been
something wild. Something vast
and terrible and joyous
and bright, because there is altogether
too much fire in me. It
devastates me.
Pools of light
dripping, like ichor,
from the curves of my body.
The gravity pulling my organs
into an orbit, the compulsion
to make myself a galaxy.
And though everywhere I seek
but peace, my hands move
of their own volition, shaping
cisterns of starlight, drawing
war out of the woodwork.
Capacity for creation paired
with desire to destroy.
The woods, they recognize me,
they send poisoned thorns out
to welcome me. The wolves
know me, too–I wake to their
baying, I tremble with their bloodlust.
Still, some part must have been holy
for the flowers do anoint me;
limbs made luminous by seraphic chanting.
Now what I was, I cannot say,
only that it was untamed.
Only that I was too great
to be contained
until now.
Or perhaps not.
I look fearfully at my reflection.
It blazes back at me.
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