flammable

in the darkest hours

the three a.m. wake up calls

where loneliness sits over my head like a premonition,

old artifacts in the attic of my mind

come to me like a vision

and maybe all of my lessons

will be learned here: tucked away upstairs,

bent over boxes long forgotten,

wiping years of dust off of them,

separating memories from broken narrative

finding truths and unburying them

piles become walls become ceilings

but i think i smell smoke in the house

i think i've been carrying this match for a long time