An Introduction to the Life of a Phoenix
The absence of my youth
does not mean I am old.
By all accounts,
I am still young.
(Wrinkles rarely line my face,
but the monsters show up
in my gazes from time to time.)
I remember what it feels like
to be twenty-one and in love.
The way your eyes shone with golden constellations
and every song you dedicated to me
transformed into a love sonnet.
(The glow of candle light,
the taste of champagne,
but also the taste of a thousand pills swallowed hastily,
the liquor gulped down in an attempt to speed up redemption.)
I can transport myself back to the age of fifteen
where music spoke volumes and the hurried scratch
of pen against paper.
I felt as though my paper was my confidante,
the words-my catharsis.
(The only one who understood spoke not a word
of our sacred trust.)
I am the girl who is a girl within a girl within a girl.
I feel one-hundred-and-nineteen some days,
but other days, I swear I am as young as the wind,
as youthful as a newborn.
(Innocence and experience swirl into a tornado of emotions.)
If you ask me an occupation,
I could spit out lies and tell you an author, a student,
a full-time daydreamer, but none of those would be true.
(And these days, the poet in me prefers the stark truth over the garish lies.)
I’m a phoenix rising from the ashes.
I’m a believer in magic but also a skeptic.
I spend my days weaving words among disasters,
but none of those ring true.
I could tell you the tales of the people I met and the travels.
(But the truth of the matter is I stretch my wings to find home,
I set myself aflame to bring to life a new version of me,
and this happens more than I would care to admit.)
Who am I?
Just the words you read on the page.
Just the secret on the tip of your tongue.
I will keep your secret til the end of days,
and when the end finally comes,
I will set myself aflame.