Stature and sturdy I stand. Firm and impervious to harm. Windows gazing at you from afar, heckling at my presence. Have I ever been cold, ever discomfort you? To every discomfort a laugh in return. Drunken stutter of footsteps shove onto the polished wood, before beautiful to the touch. Now trampled and beaten. Scraping the walls with your bitter hands, the paint thins. Exposing frame and withering of beauty, you despise your home.



Rebuilding and painting over the rips. Temporary happiness befriends a façade. I settle and sit, content at last, to feel a sharp scorch at my back. I’ve been set ablaze to find a dead match in your palm. A dissatisfied smile you wear with pride. To bring you happiness is to watch me fall, so I crumble with delight, only to feel plaster being slapped at me again. The walls become nothing but old paint, discolored and frail, and weak mold. Of what used to be so whole and warm, the cold halls have no memory.



Doors sealed and blinds shut, not even sunlight has greeted these corridors. To build then to burn brings you pleasure. The attic still lays untouched. Warm walls and the scent of life still alive to where you didn’t know. A neighbor you find, having more appeal to your toxic eye. Her walls still fresh with new paint. You pack your matches and drink your malice. She welcomes you to see your false innocence. The key still so effortlessly left under the doormat, **I can still smell the burned oak.