It takes two hands to clap
and you’re the bullet in the barrel of the gun; you’re the sharpened blade of the dagger; you’re the poison in the drink. But I’m the one pulling the trigger, pressing the cool steel to my throat, raising the glass to my mouth.
Sloughing off the layers of my former self,
I rise from the ashes,
Spread my wings,
Each feather a red-gold tongue
Proclaiming new beginnings.
There is irony embedded even within this triumphant proclamation, however-
Like the phoenix,
Am I doomed to always make the same mistakes?