A Phoenix Rises out of Blood & Ash
Somehow I made it to December...
The girl I was in January died a thousand slow, painful deaths. Death by neglect, death by dismemberment, death by stoning, death by fire. Bleeding out, I watched everyone step over my corpse. A few people stopped to spit on her.
The woman I am in December? I discover her each day. Through soft, slow breaths, I stare her in her eyes. I take her face in my hands and kiss her tenderly. I tell her it is okay to begin again. I tell her I am so grateful to have her.
One thing is for certain. There won't be anymore neglect. I'm not cutting off my arms and ears to trade for shallow love. I won't let anyone throw stones & hide their hands or worse, reach out to rub the soreness out of the spot it landed. I no longer burn in my flames of maniacal rage. I won't bleed out for anyone or anything.
I ascend above the corpse & cry out when I see the bruises, scars, & burns. The broken bones. The missing limbs. How could this happen? How could this world have been so cruel to someone so oblivious & undeserving?
She's safe now. I hold her in my arms. I kiss her cold face. I tell her it is okay to rest now. She's been through enough. I will ask nothing more from her. I dress her wounds. I put her in her darkest & finest. I bury her beneath the ocean floor. She has done enough. She was always enough.
Now what the hell do I do with the woman I am today? She has bat wings & she can fly above the brute violence. She has sleek obsidian skin & magma in her meridians. Her hair is made of fire & her eyes are two glowing stones. She's a formidable force to be reckoned with. Her enemies can not prosper over her. They stare in awe instead. She looks like the girl they spit on & stepped over. But she isn't that girl anymore.
