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  • Writer's pictureMichaela

Sea Star

The tale told by tempests on my skin blued for battle,

Blackly bruised and battered, armored with scales forged

Of ice and shell and coral red as blood spilt upon the waves...

Would make you shudder, to a man.

Would make you flee the monsters I have faced,

The enemies I've vanquished, would make you weep

To see how I waged war for my own soul:

With seeds and softness and springtime sun,

With wounds gaping to spill raindrops on green ground,

With a smile and a song--until my bones cracked

In inky grasps drawing me to a gnashing maw

That would not be sated, tearing away pieces envied

Until I tore back, adapted, adopted fury.

It chafes. It's always chafed, but less than all that harshness.

My skin is cold beneath my armor, and

My heart is warming under an onslaught of hope

And light is streaming through calm water,

And I don't know what to do amidst such peace,

With such fierce protection wielded for me.

Alone so long in this vast ocean I've learnt

The art of glamours, of color changing,

Grown chromatophores and taught myself strange magicks

But now I must regrow.

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