I am made of memories.
Muscle fibres project abstract dreams
and Mothers of the Luna sing lullabies
until the darkness shatters into softness
and I can call this all a yarn.
A ballerina dances on the tip of my tongue-
gnashers gritted, dress aflame.
I swallow the phantasm of grace
without gagging on its aftertaste.
I learn to savour cinders in the hopes that one day
I could, like strength, hide in miridical places.
Every diaphragm hosts a city of ghosts,
translucent anatomy falls further to shadow
as paling hope slips from frozen lips uninhibited.
What becomes of a glass-formed girl
momentarily imbued with the breath of dragons?
Are we all destined to learn how
flames can forge anything but kismet?
Hellfire lives in freed sun-warmed heartbeats.
I know Summer-born infants knew the feeling of burning
long before Prometheus united creation and devastation
by placing both in the hands of humanity.
I know Fire-forged daughters never hid from the sun
but they never seem to fall at its hands.
I am made of the memories
of how to become a myth.
Yet, when floating smoke-formed promises fade
I do not learn how it feels to be reborn.
I remain something less than a hero.