The Fire

I am forged in my mother’s image
and my hair never lets me forget it
It waves at me every morning, daring me to tame it
Baby licks of hair dance from beneath my bangs and crackle tauntingly, refusing to sit down
It’s just as thick and as course as the tongue my mama gave me
I speak sharply without apology,
but a warm edge lingers underneath
Her voice ignites in mine whenever my anger is stoked
But, my fingers, like hers, are careful
They create and destroy with precision
I still feel the ash at my finger tips
I didn’t always appreciate the flame she lit inside me
But now I see
Fire can be beautiful



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