rise Phoenix, rise.

behind my eyes, lies the story of “We”

keep turning pages, I beg you.

no need to re-read.

you don’t hear me though.

the first chapter was always your favorite

so you flip back,

creases form,

pages rip,

you don’t give a fuck: You Flip Back.

re-read. re-register. re-analyze.

re-loading the pistol of memories no longer significant

just to shoot sound,

because our potency has long been absent.

you’re on your knees now

frantically breathing false hope: CPR style

into memories: lifeless.

expired.

my lack of pity for you is my salvation

but my hatred of you, will be my downfall

armed with understanding, eyes closed:

 i let self-awareness be the dawn that both birthed and baptized me.

i reached behind my eyes

and slowly torched that book of “We”

you screamed “Blasphemy!”

i screamed because fire burns. 

my once befriended

once controlled Fire caught wind,

and rode side-saddle, dignified

to the mental library inside, where my other books reside

cursed burning lips, pursed

eyes wide open,

the flames kissed my anthology.

and now,

i am left with nothing but ashes. 

ashes.

these ashes are what I Flip Back to.

these ashes birthed this poem,

these ashes gave yield to the realization that the burning of one book,

prompts the rising of another. 

- dennica pearl//The Book of "We"

poem: inspired by an asshole.

photos: taken by a soulmate. 

rebirth.