Never beaten by parents dead to me,
not forced into battle so early
that synapses, burnt from overload
fired into separate beings.

I only kick in my sleep
and I have never flashed back,
except once.
My stitches are hidden,

inconsequential to most -
but my marks, like a grenade,
will take me out
if improperly handled.

Maybe I need a more
colorful explosion?
Should a city go
up in flame?

Kenny ripped the paper off the package
and unwound the gray fuses,
intertwined like possibilities
lost, possibilities arriving.

Ignited from some secret source,
the possibilities evaporated
in tiny white showers of light
but he held on, and

It blew his finger off.
I can still hear him laughing
right before the scream.

And let the darkness fear our light.