Middle Piece First

For the ones who flinch when they’re seen too soon—and want it anyway.

I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth—
not the kind that stays clean.
Mine was used, bent, blackened at the edges.
Made for fire. For melting things down to their essence.

The kind of silver that hums near heat.

I can talk to anyone.
Slip into a conversation mid-thought like I belong there.
Say things that would sound unhinged in other mouths—
but when I s…