House of Flames

By T

the house feels like it’s burning

now,

not a roaring wildfire,

just a slow, relentless smolder

of forgotten bills,

missed appointments,

empty pill bottles

collecting dust on the counter.

i used to hold the hose.

tiny hands,

barely strong enough

to hold back the flood,

and yet i kept the roof from caving

in

for almost two decades.

child turned crisis manager,

eldest responsibility

stuffed into the body of the

youngest.

but now i’m tired.

i stopped.

i let the flames lick at the wallpaper

and the ceilings crack with heat.

i filled my days with school and

work and training,

locked my door like a shield

and dared the chaos to come find

me.

and it did.

it found them instead.

parents,

grandparents,

siblings too selfish to see

the weight they handed me

like a birthright,

they choke now

on the smoke i used to swallow.

they call me selfish.

they guilt trip me.

they whisper blame

like incense through the halls,

but i’m too numb

to kneel under their shame anymore.

freedom doesn’t feel like freedom

when you grow up in a burning house.

it feels like standing outside barefoot,

watching flames

consume the life you once saved,

and realizing

you don’t miss the heat.

you miss being needed.

you miss the illusion

that you were holding it all together.

it’s strange,

this hollow kind of peace.

this bitter taste of validation,

seeing them flounder

without the child they leaned on.

maybe i should feel bad.

maybe i should grab the hose again.

but my arms ache,

my lungs are tired of smoke,

and for once,

i want to watch the fire burn

without rushing in to die for it

By T