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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