I dream of fire, of smoke and ember rugs.
My arms are bound, my legs are ash and blood.
The cries of the people roar with the flames,
And when I wake I shake off fear and sweat.
In the morn, I brush the flames from my hair
From the shower so hot the dream returned;
The droplets burn my shoulders, yet they lay
Untouched by me. Not real, I tell myself.
So when I walk to school I can ignore
The cries of the people, the stares and smirks
Of those who take their pleasure from my pain.
Their hatred is their offense against me.
My life is a walking battle, therefore
My armor is thin, my arms are heavy;
I must rely only on my magic—
The fires that burn in my bones and blood.
In my defense, in its use, I become
The one who burns herself at the stake.