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StoveTop Skirmish

How unnatural, it seems,
that her petite frame does not
Fry along with the pan that
never quite fills enough to
Regenerate, to find solace in her prosthetic sun.

Gas crawls its way up,
initiating a game of chutes and ladders
Red rage only a split second behind,
spitting and snarling,
Hissing its warning.
"I want to burrrn," it seems to say.

She only scoffs;
the elements, even, are no match for my mother.





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