I’m worn and withered from being this bird.
Of fire and ash, ash and fire.
Over and over, morning-born,
Waking up weary in the fluttering, frail flakes
burned paper, song, and skin.
You think you can live again.
But the fire follows
trails of flammable feathers
to outstretched wings.
And here I find
that all things I thought had cracked and
Send me screaming, burning, dripping, raw.