The sword does not fear the flame that forges it,
nor mourn the matter ground away
in revelation of its hardened edge.
The phoenix does not cry at its killing flame,
nor at the remnants of the body burned
in the name of rebirth.
Sacrifice is always required in resurrection.
…
this is what you tell yourself when
light bleeds through closed eyes.
You cannot remember a time
before you were a disappointment.
Rebirth has not helped with this
nearly as much as you thought it might.
A child raised at arms length
Would always sooner strike than embrace.
Now he'd swear they hold out hope for you.
It's strange, what distance does.
Most of the stars we see are already dead, you know.
The light has only ever been
a reflection in our eyes.
You'd like to think of yourself
as a thing improved by pain.
Has the truth ever been so convenient?
Hone yourself all you like;
you won't get sharper
if you were never a weapon at all.
There will just be less of you.
But that, of course,
might be enough.