Burn It Down

I traced the marble countertops
with a silent finger,
crept around the creaking floorboards
that always used to give
you away.
I admired the floral arrangement,
a spot of bright in the black
of the dining room.

I remember a time when I'd envision
the 12-person table
and the dinner parties it would host.
Before the walls went up
and it was just a bare skeleton
opening its soul to the flat face of the sky.

But this place is forced
and stuffy.
The scent of lavender lies thick and cloying in the air.
A person could suffocate here.
I am and I haven't even
finished yet.

I ghosted through the empty bedrooms,
laid on the floor of the room that
was supposed to be my studio.
Where I could crack myself wide open
and splatter my inners on canvas,
but you painted over all that.

Memories reach up to clip my ankles
suck the heat from my body.
I'll give it the warmth it craves,
strike the match I've had pressed between my fingers
toss it into the cough-syrup air
let it take the memories, the ghosts,
and you
with it.