firebird

the scent of eucalyptus is heavy,

lingering in the folds of flesh.

sixteen years of watching candles

drip scorching wax from the sun,

as if icarus himself was being

melted out of the sky.

matches curling

like wilting lavender,

and beer bottles clinking

like broken charms

make tapestries

of loss and looking.

the friction of graphite in the ridges

of my identity is uncomfortable,

but not more so than the notion of

cotton thread sealing hearts closed.

three days of waiting for the

dread to be washed away.

it becomes clearer when one

ensconces everything in

pure panic and true terror,

the intimacy between

oneself and time can never

be cleanly cut away.

screams don’t echo

in the void.

there’s nothing

and everything

tied to your ankle after

being thrown headfirst into

a sea of sirens.

fingers that remember the bite

of steel and friction

when your retinas have lost focus—

this is a song you’ve sung,

a song you shan’t forget.

one hundred eyes won’t

make it easier

to watch your back for killers,

but at least you’ll be able to

see the sun rise and set

at the same time,

wondering if there’s anything

greater than watching the day

live the life of a firebird.