Shattered windows panes wait at the foot of their frames with a nervous glance towards me.
There is nothing I can do.
I have had the fever for days,
and like dogs and psychics can sense sickness,
you watched my weakness from your dreams,
woke and waited for the worst possible time to “just need to talk”.
Now and then,
you knock so hard on the door that it disappears, running in fear as the windows wave goodbye and the carpet creeps under the bed to hide,
and you stand, your shadow shaking at the sight of you,
in the empty, echoing house with your eyes fixed on me,
and I am expected to be brave.
I am a mine for your mind,
your shovel, selfish and submerged until you feel satisfied and safe,
and I am just a pile of ashes and squandered resources on the bare floorboards.