Burning Beautifully

If I had one wish, just one, I would wish for the fire in my wings to burn a little less. Just enough that the pain is not so excruciating. Just enough that the scent of burnt flesh doesn’t follow me everywhere I go. But not so little that I lose that beautiful violet hue. Not so little that the world stops looking up when I pass overhead. Because despite everything, the fire taught me how to survive. It taught me how to keep flying on wings that should have folded long ago. So no I wouldn’t wish for the flames to die. Only for them to be kinder. And then I wonder Who would I become if my wish came true? Would I still write in shades of violet? Would I still know how to fly? Or would I become someone else entirely? I think I would become me. Not the smoke. Not the ash. Not the burning. Just the bird who had been hiding beneath the flames all along.