Saving Grace

Burnt twice past
a Sunday,
I’m not sure
it's shyness,
this quiet way
in which I protest.

My feelings,
or the shadow
looming over
my scary lot,
is not as bizarre
as my screaming.

Who do you
think you are--
--my mother?!?!?
renews the shame
among the sad remains
of who I have become.

From the inside.
sticking too far out,
the frail sticks,
and heavy stones,
I used for bones
shatter at my feet.