As I rise from the tear-washed

Ashes of my former self,

I stumble forwards,

Newly unaccustomed to the weight

Of a living, breathing body.

It had taken a while,

For my limbs to be reformed,

For my organs to be slotted into place,

For tissue to be rewoven into skin.

And yet as I turn my head,

I know I am not the same person

That I was before.

Scars and burns remain from the

Ordeal that I have survived.

There are parts of me that have not

Come back correctly, the cuts

Still chafing and bleeding.

I know I can no longer be the self

That I was before.

I know some people will miss her.

But perhaps this change is a good thing:

The old self combusted into flame,

From which I arise and spread my wings.