This Burning Home

There is a space under my battlements
that I am sure I have shown you.
Where a spring drip drops drips.
Its’ stream cool and refreshing.
I used to like the sound.
There is a space under my heart
that I let you inhabit.
You and your friends rumor and mystique
paid little rent.
There is a space under my bed
where I told you to go at night
to kick at the monsters
so that I could sleep in peace
in peace.
There are spaces wide and gaping
that funnel into other spaces
minute and fragile.
I trusted you with lock and key and passcode
I let you know
the secret word.
You said you would use your lantern to light up the dark
in my spaces
because you were afraid of the dark.
Now like the blood dripping from an adder
I’m covered in drops of your kerosene fuel
scratching at the burn marks.
There was a space under my battlements
but love
you have burned the battlements.
Now where you once found spaces
for you to play
there are holes.
Now where you used to drink
there’s mud in the water
contaminated.
In the space previously under my heart
but right above hell
there is strict taxation.
Now there is no bed to hold back the monsters
and their evil jelly eyes.
I’m glad you enjoy pyrotechnics child.
I hope you enjoy the incoming implosion
just as much.