Scorpios, Burn

I never thought of myself as a phoenix.
Never thought of myself as much, really,
some kind of poet thug maybe.
But in the last 10 years alone,
without trying or wanting to,
I've seen myself
disintegrate and re-integrate over and over,
nonchalantly stroll past the pile of ashes
of my life, forever confident the ashes
would be re-born.
I never wanted to be a phoenix
but, somehow, I always go down in flames,
with no choice afterwards but to gather
all my carbon and courage
and become myself again.
A person can only see parts of them die--
their heart, their hope, their future--
then wake up again so many times
before they tire of the whole process.
I've fallen to pieces inside,
watched myself forcing goodbyes
on all the people, places, and things
I've loved most dearly,
only to find I'm still sitting here, in the dark,
alone and terminally confused.
Now I can't even find any ashes to re-assemble.
Maybe I've crossed over one too many times
for the Phoenix myth to stomach.
Maybe the carbon in me has finally lost
all its sparks of life.
I never asked to be a phoenix,
especially not one so full of troubles,
with useless wings, with no more fire,
but there's no denying, here I am,
trembling and quivering, choking back
tears. Here I am
waiting, without flying, here I am
craving, without burning, to go down in flames,
even just one last time, and remember
what life is really like.

(2005)