Stones, sticks and words that spit.
They scraped me, igniting like a flint.
They threw sticks at my red skin but sticks did not hurt me.
They danced like children around a bonfire, my flames only growing greater.
They spat their words at my skin but words did not hurt me.
They wished to drown my blaze, but their words shattered to lone letters, like a mirror reflecting the cracks in their bones.
They dared to step closer and their skin bubbled with blisters from the scolding sting of my heat.
But do not dare to condemn me for my rage,
when hate is all I eat.
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