Abhainn
Who is this girl
Who has clawed her way out
Of her own chest
As from her grave?
She has not returned from death,
She never left.
Hear her in the pulse of blood,
The sting of salt,
The stifled scream at night.
Not for her the comfort
Of knowing or being known,
Not for her the warming flame,
But the pyre where witches burn
Again and again in every moment.
She is not ashes, she is glass,
Shards that pierce through memory,
Torn reflections of another life.
She is revenant, she is gorgon,
She is hideous.
She is beautiful.
Devouring scraps of broken hope
She has survived so much.
And none of it
Was her fault.
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