By the paltry light of the near-dark
Moon I carve nine symbols into my
Arm descending from elbow to wrist
Lighting the fire of breath/will/magic
Within and directing my rage toward
Those who see us as less-than,
As unworthy, as barely human,
As chattel, as property.
Then I carve five more into my palm
And wait, blood dripping into dirt,
For the battle to begin.
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