"Portrait as Scar."
"So that's when the scars salvaged my shoulder hole.
Because I was a husk, you see.
Never eating breath or light.
You're right, thrown into the grass it wasn't scarred yet.
Just little gathering splinters.
But then I felt it, again, begin to twist above me.
And the fire ants rushed to bite its prickling bark.
Sure, I tried to rub it between anyone's lies
to keep their flames at bay.
Oh man, their skin hungry flays.
It skinned dream water as a side that taught me how
to carry the word cauterize.
The scar wished itself sapphire, and waited
for me to lift my head to chew on ice chips.
Waited for me to quench my anger's
lust, until I was strong enough to love without it.
It was only then could I knew the scar had made me a queen.
I swear it, yes, sculpted from a dragon's tusk."
I may or may not have been watching Game of Thrones
during--
[LAUGHTER]
--part of the composition of that poem.