phoenix [d9] ~ fin

p h o e n i x

The cold bites deeper than my own skin, shears through the wildfire and clutches at my organs.

Dried tears, chattering teeth and shattered will; I do not scream because a phoenix does not belong in a winter storm. This song does not end with rebirth, I'm going to get taken away, and my mother's distant voice makes sure I know that. Wet tears, bruised skin and trembling voice, saying that I'd run away one day. She'd laugh, cigarette between her lips and bottle at her feet, before spitting at me -- ("then the peacekeepers will take you away and punish you a lot worse than I ever could. They love bad little boys.")

I'm a bad little boy, a roamer who can't even tend towards peace of mind and rebirth. The black and blue expanse across my skin isn't ash, my red raw fingers are not talons and a rib cage that's seen the cycle of shattering and mending one-too many times has no place calling itself the cage to wildfire in my heart. I do not know whether fear or the cold is the catalyst for the chattering of my teeth; it hurts all the same.

Broken streets and double vision, I press on because I don't want them to find me. If my parent's find me they'll kill me, if the peacekeepers find me then they'll punish me. As father would say, I'm absolutely fucked.

I can say it out loud, no one cares.

"I'm fucked."

I push ice from my lungs beneath my mutter, eyes flickering and vision wet with salted tear drops, I swim in red panic. I have to keep going, just until I find a quiet place to sleep. Where bad people can't get me, where Peacekeepers can't find me, where they can't take me home and make me suffer. Then I can use whatever cash my dad has and buy myself a loaf of bread, anything to stop the hunger devouring me from the inside out, pulling at loose fear and exposing vulnerability beneath my flesh.

I find a dark place, an empty place, beneath a stone bridge. I don't sleep beneath the stars tonight, I never did because I stopped believing in wishes upon shooting stars a long time ago. I don't find my compass in the stars, I find it within myself -- wildfire, broken bones and all. I don't sleep beneath the stars, I don't care, because I don't belong there. Not when nightmares tear at my mind, not when my puzzle pieces sit abandoned, not when they sit abandoned and I realize I'll never see them again.

They find me, appearing in remnants and afterimages. They make my skin ignite, make my flesh burn shades of red and dispel the cold lacing its way up my bones. Carrying white flags and begging me to come home; I ain't no soldier, they don't find me beneath the stars. They stumble upon me in the darkness.

"Are you lost, little boy?"

Eyes flutter open, and there's another figment standing before me. Cigarette teeth, wide eyes, dead eyes and he smells weird. His hair looks greasy grey and he looks way too fat to be poor, he looks at me like I'm a meal and the corner of his lip pulls into a sinister grin. I can reach out and touch him. He hasn't stumbled upon me in the darkness, he's found me in his lair.

I'm not dreaming, and this isn't a figment.

Wide eyes and stricken with fear, I shake my head and recoil. "N-no, I was just leaving." Scrambling, fumbling and standing on my own two shaking feet. He moves as if to block me. Predatory glare, cigarette teeth revealed by his lips pulled into a sneer. He's not a figment, he's something real, something tangible and he's not just going to let me go.

"Where are your parents?"

I step back, shaking my head.

"Dead."

Because they must've died inside a long time ago to treat their cubs like that.

He tilts his head to the side, predatory eyes and curious glare; every moment gives an aura of starvation. "Just relax," he steps towards me, bad intentions, evil and he smells even worse. His hands reach forwards, bony and dirty fingers. "Don't struggle."

Fear becomes my reality, I scream and lash out with my fists towards his midsection and catch him somewhere. It doesn't matter. He cries out and stumbles. I'm already running, bag scooped up from the ground. Not a hunter but a cornered cub, not a phoenix looking for rebirth but a cub looking for its mother.

Wet cheeks, shaking knees -- I don't stop until I find the phoenix's eye, I breathe a sigh of relief at the sunrise and sob.

I want to go home.

(Just not back there)

And I'm still sobbing when I drag myself through the grass, still sobbing when dark buildings begin to make their appearance. Still sobbing when my back's against the wall, sink to the ground and touch the cold, embrace the darkness.

Red eyes and exhaustion, I think I've run out of tears. Or they've frozen over, not turned to steam at the touch of my cheeks. My skin is not ash and broken bones have no place calling themselves the cage to wildfire. I breathe.

"I'm absolutely fucked."

No one cares what I say anymore.

"And why would that be?"

Shaking bones and chattering teeth, I push myself up and my breath catches itself in my throat. Wide eyes glare at the two figures, not figments, tangible people. People that are here, the woman with dark hair and dark eyes. She smiles. But the man beside her does the talking, he's the one who asked the question, carrying banners of mystery on their backs and glaring at my with curiosity.

"Please don't hurt me, I just, I'm just so hungry--"

I'm everything but I'm built from nothing. They're going to punish me, or that guy's going to find me, or they'll find me. I'm fucked. Absolutely and undeniably, fucked.

"Where are your parents, kid?"

I repeat the lie like chorus, because it matches with the rhythm of everything else. It goes with the tune of my life. "Dead." Because that's what they are, just dead. I was broken by dead men, hurt by decaying women, abandoned dead children.

"I have no one."

Because I'm nothing built from everything. Just a pile of ashes waiting to be reborn.

The woman turns to the man; they become my judge, jury and executioner all at once. "I think we could use him, y'know." She says to him and I step back. They might be like that guy from under the bridge.

I hit the wall.

"I suppose, last one got herself caught. But he's a child, no one suspects a child."

They're not like that guy.

"Use me?"

I ask, reminding them that I'm here.

"What's your name, kid?" He asks, squinting his eyes and reading at every insecurity notched upon my skin, every weakness worn on my sleeve. He must have read a whole novel by now.

I answer, suddenly and diligently. "Phoenix." I leave out my last name. Because my parents are dead and I have no one. I am no one built from everything. She turns to speak to him, their conversation slowly drifting into background noise and white static. I forget.

I remember -- nothing built from everything.

She turns to me, wide smile. "How would you like to come with us? You're starving and you're dirty. We'll get you some food and clean clothes."

That sounds better than being punished.

"O-okay."

She takes me by the hand and teaches me to soar.

p h o e n i x

This is what it means to soar.

Eighteen years old, defined by half a bag of coke and a couple of cigarettes; every time I push my blade into someone's skin and every time I finish off one of my runs. Half a bag of coke, a line along the table from my stash; I'd die for the euphoria. A gnawing hunger for the high, it devours me from the inside out but it doesn't leave me hollow. My organs are wildfire, my skin is ash -- I rise.

This is routine; waking up every morning and wondering why there isn't a bullet in my temple, finishing a drug run, taking my payment and deciding I don't care. It's routine, black bag on my back, switchblade in my pocket and the same cocky grin but empty eyes. I always take task in stride, walking into the bakery and shooting the secretary a smile. She never smiles back, looks like she could kick my ass, and I stuff the bags into my backpack and fuck off. Sometimes I get attacked, sometimes I get my ass kicked. I never lose the order though, I always finish the job. Even when they blacken my eye and leave scars on my skin.

Blacken my eyes and my knuckles swell purple. Split my skin and I bloody my blade; this is what it means to soar.

It's easy to forget them while I'm high. Forget that my name's Wolfhart, forget that I left my pack to whither beneath winter's clutches because I needed to soar. That's the thing, Phoenix Wolfhart is a selfish cunt by nature. I fuck girls and never bother to see them again, I play cards, putting whatever meager coins I have in the pile and taking away what seems to be a fortune. Card tricks, poker face and cocky grin -- something tells me I'm not gonna be so pretty for long. I'll call it a rebirth.

I tell myself the puzzle pieces all fit together, that I'm beginning to make the pretty picture I'd see from between the claws of darkness when I was twelve.

I traverse through a cycle of mornings and rebirth, dying for the night and watching myself ignite when sunlight kisses my skin. I'm still nothing built from everything, a lone star built from a solar system. So I do my job, take my payment, find someone to fuck and get high with for the night -- I tell myself it's rebirth.

Come morning, I'm a pile of ash again.

Still, it's better than remembering my name's Wolfhart. And when the sun breaks through the window and the flare touches my skin like a phoenix feather, I'm reminded what I'm worth with wide eyes and the same cocky grin. Half a bag of coke and a packet of cigarettes. I live for cyclical highs and constant pleasures. I deliver their poisons and give myself to the gift of euphoria

(This is just what it means to soar)

My worth is defined by the poisons they pick.