When they ask why

You tell yourself to run when the fire comes.

You take off when the first ember bursts from the pit. You don't wait for the grass to catch flame. You know it will, and it does.

When they ask why, you tell them you needed to see Hell to believe it.

When they ask why, you tell them phoenixes rise from ashes, so maybe your mother will too.

When they ask why, you tell them you needed to see what could survive.

When they ask why, you tell them you needed to know if what was left would be enough.