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you had hair as bright as the sun so i
nicknamed you ‘fire girl,’ nicknamed the
freckles on your skin and the hunger
in your eyes ‘honeycomb’ and ‘swallow
me whole.’ your lips tasted like honey,
you know? like honey and bee stings,
but i always kissed you anyway.

me, i called myself ‘firewood,’ perfect
for sparking at your fingertips, perfectly
made to let you grow even as i shrunk.
candle wax heart, wicker fingers.
every breath a ‘consume me,’ every laugh
a plea for help all at the same time.

i don’t know where this poem is going
to go. i don’t know whether to remember
you as ‘destruction’ or as ‘salvation.’
what do you do when one person is both?

because you burnt me down, fire girl,
you burnt my firewood heart until i was
keeling in the ashes, until my wicker arms
ran with fire, until my hair dripped soot.
but see — i’ve always been a phoenix,
you know? that’s what i never told you.

you destroyed me, but i grew from the ashes.
you, my destruction. me, my own salvation.

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