Tied and turning on a spit. Slowly roasting to a crisp. My superficial skin starts to rip. It doesn't fit. Anymore. In flames, I fall. Facedown in my own ashes, I taste the burn of years, dreams, who I thought I would be. By now. Spurned and confused. But, alive. Unfurling in singed strips. My chrysalis rips in fire bloom. Control burning room for the new. Incinerating anger, pain, from the days seemingly wasted. Chain-smoking with my devils as I decipher their games. Seeing it all. The decimated. The holy. The egregious errors and scrapes. The self-defeating games I've played. The trembling. The fury. Looking back upon the blackened, I see the old me, skinned. I bow my head to my own passing, and catch a glimpse of virgin white unearthing as I walk forward. This fire did not kill me. It birthed me. Screaming new life, ricocheting canopies where I take flight.