Cathartic’s Crisis

Dollhouse where
the fallout blows,
strange mutations of
love appear in droves;
from the bedrooms we spent
days alone to
unfinished basements
we dared not go.

Fables
upon which young fury was
based, thrill of the
chase was summoned.
Behind perfect little
buttons,
scars,
and when they
knock down this dollhouse,
all its dilapidated charms,
a piece of me
will go
with it
into heavens of
harm.

Collapsing its hallways, burying the monster in me I learned from his;
debris through the crawlspace, killing whatever haunt this
place could have been,
whatever ghosts would
have bothered with it.

Your wrecking ball
aesthetic meets
my masochistic penchant,
and for the greater
good, it’s accepted
this husk of a
home has consented to
peace.

But arson is a spiritual
crime, and burning mine
down was
his
repentance for
a
lifetime of
psalms that preach the
opposite.

He chose his
god and followed it,
extinguishing safety’s match.

We might have gone with him, but
were his only
possessions
that
did
not
catch.

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