The phoenix doesn't rise from the dead this time the fire burns her skin and melts her organs the gleaming gold and purple of her feather turns into ashes—grey, black. She was not reborn into something new, no, she's now but a pile of bones ready to be fed to the drooling dogs on the backyard who's been waiting for her demise all their
lives
YOU ARE READING
Excerpts From A Book I'll Never Write
PoetryMy therapist told me i needed a healthier coping mechanism
