My Lasting Minutes

They praise the phoenix.

How glorious, they say,
to rise again.

How beautiful the flames.

They never speak
of the screaming.

Of flesh that blistered,
bones that cracked,
feathers that curled
into black dust.

They speak only
of the bird that flew—

never of the one
they murdered.

They tell you,
"Sometimes you must be destroyed
to become who you were meant to be."

A lie
told by those
who never burned.

The fire does not merely
consume.

It remembers.

Every tongue of flame
etches another scar
upon the soul.

Every betrayal,
every abandonment,
every hand
that stepped aside
to watch you burn—

becomes another coal
buried beneath the skin.

Yes...

the phoenix rises.

But something else
rises with it.

A colder heart.

A shorter mercy.

A memory
that never sleeps.

Its wings are no longer
painted by hope,

but by smoke.

Its eyes no longer
search for beauty,

but for danger.

Its song
has become a warning.

People applaud
its strength,

never asking
what that strength
has cost.

They mistake
survival
for healing.

The phoenix knows better.

It does not soar
because it loves the sky.

It flies
because the ground
once betrayed it.

And every beat
of those magnificent wings

carries the weight
of a fire

it never chose.

So do not envy
the phoenix.

If you had heard
its cries
inside the flames—

you would pray

never

to become one.