Poke the bear, they said,
until her claws carve truth into the air.
Who’s afraid of little old me?
Not them—not yet.
Pain sharpened into punishment,
lashing out at every shadow,
every hand too close.
Anger needed a home,
and I gave it mine.
I became the thing I feared,
teeth bared,
eyes burning with everything I couldn’t bury.
Hurt has a way of growing wild
when there’s nowhere else for it to go.
-Amelia James
Amelia James Poetry 
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