House Fire


Morgan Fuerstenberg graphic

My neighbors tell me how great my house looks.

No paint chips. There are flowers growing on the outside that are in a perfect row, evenly spaced apart. The bushes are kempt, not a single leaf is out of line.  The trees are tall and full of green likewise to the grass that is never overgrown and is only allowed 2 inches of growth before being cut again.

The inside of my house is on fire.

The carpet is a pile of powdery ash and curtains have been slowly burning to a crisp. The slow burning of my house creeps in on me more and more each day, but I am comfortable and warm. It is all that I know, I do not want it to go away.

An abrupt knock came at my door.

You came with a bucket of water and a “fix-it” attitude. I do not want the fire to go away, I can manage it. Though you still put it out. The next day you bring in a box of tools, a new carpet and curtains, and begin fixing my familiar. It is invasive, but I understand why. The inside of my house now reflects the outside.

You catch me trying to start the fire again.

You stop me before the match can hit the ground. I wanted to be in control before the fire comes out of nowhere again. You should hate me. You should leave before the you cannot stop me. Though, you don’t. You take the box of matches from my hand and throw them away. You refuse to leave. I never want you to.

My house is calm and so am I.