It took her 288 deaths for her to realize she was a phoenix. Each time she could remember dying but nor being reborn. Sometimes it was the other way around. But the issue was no longer her believing in phoenix. Her problem was that she didn’t know a thing about being a phoenix.
Except that it hurt.
This time, however, the pain was different. The pain of death/rebirth did not come alone.
From the gallows of her throat; from the forests in her thighs; from the volcano in her heart, from the storm in her lungs, she spit out rocks of salt water and fire.
She vomited the rage of birth and sacred surrender of death. She wrote the story of all that ever was as the sun came out from her belly button and she weeped out a river in which she saw the reflection of herself in which she was, the cocon of countercreation, and from that reflection the moon was reborn as well.
The moons multiply as she dies and they are reborn with her.she holds an entire cosmos within her.
As she sees this process she looks to these moons and sees them cracking open. Eggs, from which out flowed every truth to break and save life itself.
Eggs from which stem others like her. Have they just now arrived, or is this her first time seeing them? Of her taking notice?
It has been 333 deaths, said the phoenixes, is this the rebirth that was promised?
The terms were agreed upon when the phoenix is reborn. Each and every time she understands her power of creation is only possible with her acceptance of destruction. The pain was there because the pleasure was there. The pain was inevitable. So was the healing.
But the suffering