when i was in the eighth grade,
i dressed up as a phoenix
on the 31st of october,
feathers saturated with marigold, tangerine, scarlet
weaved through my light brown hair
and plastered on an orange dress,
with a pair of wings on my back,
all worn with pride.
it made carrying a backpack impossible,
so i stuffed it in my locker
and carried a pile of books
that was taller than my torso
back and forth across the courtyard
from eight to three.
there has to be a metaphor hidden in there somewhere,
one apt, and astute, and obvious,
but whenever i remember that day,
i think of the foreshadowing instead:
foreshadowing each touch that would set me on fire,
every word that would set me ablaze,
and the tears that would drench me in kerosene.
it turns out, i was always a phoenix.
i was never the kind to get knocked down,
never the kind to dust myself off –
no – i would burn, burn, burn
like a raging wildfire
until nothing remained
but the ashes of a soul.
it made me dramatic and loud,
it made me seen as i suffered,
but it also made me resilient and different from the rest –
in a way, still fiercer than the flames
that devoured me.
remember me when you’re famous,
my history teacher remarked that day,
subtle and in passing but as sincere and simple
as a message of love
traced in fresh fallen snow —
and with each reincarnation,
every moment of that holiday,
each bewildered stare,
and the rare compliments
are once again soldered into the walls of my mind.
the years ahead would be increasingly difficult
with the fires more common
and the damage more acute,
with the occasional casualty
caught in the crosshairs of my fireball,
but like anyone,
i learn,
i rebuild,
i rise
until again i fly,
soaring high above toward a new future —
wings outstretched,
still as strong and bright
as the day i first grew them
in the eighth grade.