The Phoenix Poem by Terra Bartlebaugh

It’s another day that I stand here alive.

The concoction that I had cooked didn’t work;

It hardly ever does.

I am numb.

I am the feeling when you have pins and needles in your foot.

This never disappears for me, though.

I am your flesh, your soul, your creation.

I am the darkness in the night,

I am invisible in the light.

My hands, my neck, and my flesh—

These things I can never feel.

I am just a speck in this great big world,

Am I even real?

I feel like a walking corpse,

Watching the world go by me in a flash of light.

I might as well not be here,

I don’t know how to talk so I write.

I write down everything

I’ll never be able to feel.

I write down things that I know aren’t real.

These words are just letters on a cold, crisp page,

These feelings grow old by age.

When I die, no one will be at my funeral.

They will be at home listening to their friends talk,

Talk about the girl who was always quiet.

Talk about the girl who never caused a riot.

I am the living dead.

My body is alive, but my soul is not.

These words act like a life preserver,

Tossed to me in the crashing waves.

Maybe one day I’ll appear alive.

Until then, I’ll have to kill my soul

Over and over again.

Through this process, I’ll rise up

Out of the ashes.

I’ll spread my wings and

Fly away, free.