His Arms

I am not, nor have I ever been, much of a fan of poetry. Recently, in a literature class, I was required to read some works of Herbert Woodward Martin, and I fell in love. The language, the reason I am often uninterested in poetry, was very down-to-earth, and written in terms I understood and related to. He writes the way I often speak.
Particularly, I found myself drawn to a piece called Sleeping Lovers, in which a white girl and a colored man are set aflame while sleeping in a bus station one night. The imagery was captivating, and my mind's eye felt like it was on speed. But, me being me, I soon put my scientific brain to work on Sleeping Lovers. I decided that during the fire, their bodies would have been on overdrive, adrenaline and dopamine, among other chemical hormones, coursing through their veins at such high levels, they probably wouldn't actually remember the fire, even if they had lived through it; they would have eventually gone into shock and simply been unconscious. After reading it aloud and in my head several other times, I then wondered what they actually did remember. That inspired me to write a prequel. I crawled inside the girl's head in the moments before the fire, and assumed a few things I had wondered about while reading Martin's poem.
I'd love to include that here, too, for those who would like to read it, but I'm sure I'd be violating some copyright law or something, so you'll just have to find it yourself. :-)

His Arms

    As she lies in his arms, she thinks about Them. The dark chocolate-colored skin stretched over round, overworked biceps were wrapped around her like a blanket, scaring off the nightmares - almost. She can still hear her father's angry voice ringing in her head.
    "You are not my daughter."
    She feels Them pull her closer as the tears begin to stream down her ivory cheeks. The bench beneath her is cold and hard, and for a split second, she smiles, remembering the most wonderful moment of her life, the moment They first held her close and promised her the world. They made her feel something she had never felt before: security. In nineteen years, she had become accustomed to the idea that crawling out of her skin might just be soothing.
    And now, as the scene in her parents' living room plays over and over on the side of a passing train, she realizes the world is now at her fingertips. She no longer has family or responsibilities keeping her from going wherever They will take her. Comforted by this, and by the warmth of his body, she begins to drift off to sleep.
    The last thing she hears is muffled giggling and the flick of a Zippo. The last thing she feels is happy.