your battle cry smolders,
awakening a hunger,
a rage
bigger than any army
of violent war criminals 
sent to keep the peace,
stronger than any abuse of power, 
of authority, 
any perversion of justice
wrapped up pretty with a bow. 

you are what they made you
but not in the way they intended,
a weapon they never expected
to become sentient—
you have outgrown the chains
they used to keep your hands
behind your back,
outgrown the arena you were placed in
so young. 

you were never meant to grow 
as old as you are now,
each defiant year a protest,
each step a revolution.
you were never meant to grow
at all,
your footfalls loud and your heartbeat louder,
you sing it so sweetly,
your battle cry a love letter,
a gentle lullaby,
echoing,
echoing,
echoing.

(I’m rereading The Hunger Games series currently which is partially what inspired this poem.)