It was tradition, and still is
To be marked with a number on your forehead
To be compared to a value
Either shame or pride
A value that defines your life.

Every year, early summer
New victims, new scars
Scars in plain sight
Scars that are not light.

The number on you, they say,
Decides your fate
Decides your life
Decides what’s after.

I have a number too,
And it broke me to bits
It broke what was left
Nibbling away at me, a little, each day.

Every time they smirk,
Laugh when I’m not around,
A little more, my muscles tense
A little more, that number cracks.

I will not let them judge me
Because of a 37 in bright red,
I will not let them think
I am just a thirty seven
Because I am infinity,
I am the sun.

I will not break because
Of some crooked lines painted on my skin.

My being is on fire
It is burning with rage
From the thousands of grim reapers
Invited by a number.

We are not numbers
We are made of the stars
We are constellations powered by our own galaxies

And we will shine.
For we are luminous
And soon, we’ll be so bright,
That thirty seven?
We’ll make it smoulder.

(photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/chelseigh/6825468663/)

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