Think of a sickly, wounded bird. Faded grey. Then think of a fire licking up around it. A funeral pyre and also a celebration of (re)birth. A phoenix must die to rise. To be renewed. Consumed in flame that does not hurt but heals. I like the way it burns. Partly because of the great sieve I have in place of a brain I am immortal. I am a phoenix, motherfucker.

Forget not who you are, my darling.1 Burn fierce, burn bright. Above all, burn as you are and as you will to be. What colour is a person’s fire, you ask? It depends. This particular consuming conflagration I think is like molten snow. Liquid heat infused into ice. A delicious contradiction that burns bright despite all reason and rule. You are magic, don’t ever apologise for the fire in you

Crimson. Lips beckoning you into a kiss. The flame of passion. Electric blue. The roar of a blowtorch, the crackle and snap of lightning sparks. The flame of drive. Clear. Open air, shimmering on a hot summers day. The flame of spirit. White. A melded rainbow, colours fused together into searing snow. The flame of hope. Yellow. Gilt leaf wrought defiant on crisp white page, glowing against. The flame of optimism.