Phoenix no more

We all talk about phoenixes rising, how they build themselves from the ashes of unbearable cruelty, how they reduce themselves to nothing just to become something again. We say it like it’s beautiful, like it’s something to admire, like becoming nothing over and over again is some kind of achievement.

We love to remind one another that we are strong. You are strong. You’ve made it through the hardest days of your life, you can get through this one too. Tomorrow is a new day. Deep breaths. Deeper, until you feel something. I’ll be praying for you. Have you prayed for yourself? You got this, girl. Don’t let them see you sweat.

Or silence. Nothing at all.

Because most of us don’t know what to say to her. So we stand there and watch it happen. We watch the pain settle in and make itself comfortable, taking up space inside of her until there is nowhere left to put anything else. It does not rush. It does not need to. It knows exactly where it belongs.

The coals begin to warm beneath her feet. It is cold out, so at first the warmth feels like relief, like maybe for once something is being given instead of taken. She almost leans into it.

Until it isn’t.

One spark lifts, catches, and splits open into flame along the back of her right leg. She feels it. She always feels it. But she cannot scream. She learned a long time ago that anything louder than silence is desperation, attention seeking, too much, not enough. So she stays quiet while it burns.

The smoke thickens around her and the smell comes next. Burning flesh, slow at first, then everywhere. It settles into her lungs, into her hair, into the space behind her eyes, and still she blinks through it like she can outlast it.

Her nail polish melts from her fingers as she squints, trying to see the end of it, trying to find the edge of this version of herself before it disappears. She was proud of this one. She built her carefully, gave her structure, gave her something that almost resembled peace.

But it never gets to stay.

Her hair singes at the ends and the strangest part is that she isn’t hot. She isn’t anything. Just aware. Aware that once this is over, once she is reduced again to something unrecognizable, she will be left with the same question she has already answered too many times.

Will she do it again.

She will. She always does.

Oh, how strong she is.

She rebuilds with precision, placing trauma into boxes that do not close all the way. Gray dust clings to the tops of her feet, constant, impossible to fully wipe away, and still, nobody is there to see it.

It’s okay. She has done this before. The world keeps opening the book, striking the match, placing it just out of reach like this was always the plan. The smell of what is coming settles in before it even begins, and she braces for it anyway.

Unbearable life. Unrelenting.

And still, there are dinners to make and reports to fill out, bills to pay and small comforts to remember. It is her hands that place those comforts into the lives of people who barely see her. It is not their fault. It is not hers either.

And as she rebuilds again, she steps off the coals once more, the worst of it behind her.

Until next time.

Oh, how strong she is. Admirable.

And yet, for her, it’s just another Tuesday.

She isn’t tired yet. Not exactly. Just familiar. She opens the front door, sets her bags down, and sighs. That sigh is all that remains of this rebuild.

It wasn’t so bad this time. Not enough to stop.

The remnants stay with her in clenched jaws and heavy eyelids, quiet and hidden and hers alone.

---

For me, it is.

I am tired of being the phoenix, rising from ashes just to rebuild a life that will burn me again. The version of me that rises now doesn’t come back whole. She comes back stitched together, pulled tight just to keep from splitting open and leaking everything that happened last time.

I can feel it under the surface. It never actually seals.

I love the smell of gasoline. It is given to me like a gift, only on the occasions where the world does not have time to waste. This time has to be faster. I have to fall apart quicker than before.

Because I don’t think I can survive a slow burn again.

The memories show up in small moments. Something falls and I jump. I don’t want to fucking jump. That split second fear comes from somewhere that was built for me.

The flinches belong to me too.

I am tired of explaining. For what. No, you don’t understand, it was really bad.

I see it coming before it arrives. In their eyes. In the glimmer. In the laughter. I already know how it ends, and I try to push it away before it can happen again.

Why can’t I have it too.

I want hope. That’s it. Just hope. Hope instead of knowledge.

Because knowledge ruins it. Knowledge has buried every promise until belief feels stupid. The worst part is knowing how it ends and still trying to pretend that maybe this time it won’t.

It never is.

I am so fucking tired.

Tired of singed eyelashes and melted pedicures. Tired of carrying something I don’t even understand. No, that’s not true. I don’t get it. I don’t understand why it has to be me.

You wouldn’t believe me anyway.

I don’t even believe me.

I have seen things. I have been through more. I have loved and lost and slammed into the same walls over and over again, and I keep asking the same question.

Is it even worth it anymore.

I rise again and everyone is so proud, so impressed that I made it out alive. And I ask myself, already knowing the answer.

Did I ever have a choice.

So don’t tell me to stop being negative.

Fuck you.

I have endured it and now I wear it like a badge, one that slices through my skin every time I remember it’s there. At least it proves that I exist.

So here I am again, scrubbed clean, composed, presentable. You would never know. No one will. I have been told too many times that I do not deserve to be heard.

Not enough to be understood.

Not enough for anyone to grasp how many times I have burned.

It always starts the same. The right leg. The slow spread. The familiar pattern.

I am just so fucking tired.

I have nothing left to prove. Nothing left to offer that hasn’t already been taken or reshaped or misunderstood. I am here again, moving through the same repetition.

For most people, that would be misery.

For me, familiarity is peace.

Familiarity means I survived last time.

And somehow, that has to be enough.

But I still wonder what the point of any of it is. What is the point of being a phoenix if all it means is burning again.

There is no point.

And still, with whatever is left of me, I keep going. There is something almost beautiful in that. In the quiet promise I make to myself to try one more time.

But this time is different. Not brighter. Not softer. Just quieter.

Because this will be the last time I become her.

The next time I burn, I won’t rise.

I will stay exactly where I fall, until there is nothing left of me but something the wind can carry away.