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.