Dancing in the mirror, with rum in her cup. Her body is her temple the way it moves so seductively. You see it in her bass, her face, and all that treble, a whole melody. As her hips roll and a flick of her wrist, her bracelets create music, the sounds of her ancestors humming and chanting. Dips and wiggles roll off her tongue, a byproduct of her hometown.  Lights reflect off her body with a smoky haze in the air she’s dancing under the moon with stars in her eyes. Indigo skies with kisses of pink from the sun setting, she comes alive in the nighttime. 

Things were not always this way though. Just like a phoenix, she once died and rose from the ashes of a dark past. A past of strife, words that cut deeper than cutlasses and daggers thrown to destroy. Some may wonder how someone so rough around the edges walks around with a smile like sunshine. Just like the story of the Phoenix goes: there is life after death. 

When she rose, a bright light shone and beamed. Blinding the people who threw those rusty cutlasses at her. The same people who threw stones at her while they lived in glass houses. The ones who pointed one index finger at her, as their middle, ring, and pinky pointed back at them. The ones that greet you with a big smile and their hands behind their back not only to find a bleeding gun. Her light illuminated so brightly you couldn’t help but stare in complete awe. There was something so tantalizing and magical about this phenomenon. No one thought that the phoenix would rise in the fashion she did. It was so powerful that these people then combusted into a cloud of dark smog. 

From that very moment, the phoenix glowed and shimmered in her own light and really honed her power. Her wings stretched in one swift motion as she propelled up to another dimension where the sun never stops shining. The Land Of The Wildlings.