We were forged from glass.

                They heated our earth until it

                melted into their palms like

                Play-Doh in a child’s hand.

                With blue lips they blew gray

                clouds into our skies, and told

                us to dance. Umbrellas above

                their heads, they colored our rain red.

                It scalded our skin; it made a mess of

                the castles built with sweltering sand.

                They said if you move, you’ll shatter

                from the core and cracks will make

                their way to your edges until there is

                nothing left but shards of history

                                and their puncture wounds.

                They stole from our flags—

                                a star and a hollow crescent moon,

                filled our lungs with fire,

                the rooms of women with darkness,

                and tents with children until schools collapsed

                                like us when they pushed us to our knees,

                                silenced our tongues, asked

                                                                Where is your God

                                —in the space between the ground

                                and our bruised foreheads,

                                —in the seconds between our final breaths,

                                and just like our fates,

We were forged from glass.