she smiled

it was one of those days where nothing makes sense,

not even the rain pouring against 

the chimney.

smoke from the kitchen wafted through the open bedroom door,

singing louder than the kettle, 

already boiled over.

it told her to wake up.

(she didn't listen)

flames made their hungry way closer,

daring to lick at the pictures lingering on the walls.

(she couldn't hear them)

outside,

the gate was locked, making no promises.

it did not yield.

tricked,

the polished wooden floor gave way to ashes.

freed,

the dust flew

            to

raise

a warning,

a lighthouse flickering in a storm.

(she slept on)

the fire wreathed her head, crowning her a scarlet queen.

it flared up, higher

higher still in a single

      blinding

   blaze-

the roof screamed as it caved in.

          (she never woke)

addendum:

forgetful

or tired?

scatterbrained

or merely exhausted?

was the deliberate finality in which she turned the wrong dial on the stove

a mistake?

what blurs the line between a fatal error and a perfect suicide?

for that, you would have to know what she dreamed.