I am the last step before you reach the end of the staircase,
the one you push against to climb to the top.
The grime from the bottom of your shoe leaves me filthy and dark.
Sometimes, your weight is so heavy that I crack.
I am the one for which you aren’t ready,
the one you trip over but are too insecure to fall for.
I am the one who makes you want to be better
(even though I never asked you to be),
just not yet.
I am the crutch you use to pick yourself up
from the broken bones that haven’t quite healed,
the bandage that holds your wounds together until you are restored.
I am the sandpaper that scrapes away pieces of myself
until you are left smooth.
I am the rough side of the matchbox, the one you strike to create the flame.
I am just a girl you used to know.
A meaningless,
distant,
forgotten
memory.
But I am also the phoenix,
not the ashes.