Things are going to be okay;
feathers are falling away,
but that only means
that they’re clearing out places
and space for the new ones.
Things are going to be all right;
your eyes are blinded with light,
but those are just sparks and steam
from the fire inside you
burning until you’re born again.
Slip under the smoke—
crawl a little further—
your bones are melting down,
and your blood’s a little warmer—
but this isn’t the end;
the tunnel’s growing wider.
Soon the pain will fade away.
You were made to withstand flame.
Things are going to be okay;
anchors are meant to be weighty—
and carrying all your doubt and mistakes
is what finally gave you the strength
to rise up and break from the waves.