I should've burned this house down.

I.
Our goldfish died this morning.
I wounded my fingers when I picked up
the broken fragments of the fishbowl
once I threw it against the kitchen wall.
It maddens me that you started lying
of what you think, what you feel
And what you had for dinner.

Remember that time in September.
We were arguing and I threw the fishbowl at you.
And we suddenly stopped
because Aurora might die.
So you rushed to get the teapot and filled it with water.
And we have forgotten why we were fighting in the first place.
But Aurora's dead now.
And I broke the fishbowl again.

Now everything's a mess.
And there's a water puddle in the kitchen floor.
Well I can clean that, but we're not a water puddle
on the kitchen floor.


II.
You are standing on the doorstep.
I wanted to slap you so hard my wrists breaks
but how can I go back to knitting
myself back together
every night when I go to bed
where I used to sleep with you
under paper lights and the shade of the Friday moon?

But the pile of dirty clothes is eating up the bed.
And I swear I really need to do the laundry.
I'm just afraid that the bed would feel empty.
And It's funny how I want you and don't want you back
sleeping on it.

III.
I was gonna tell you to leave but I told you that Aurora died instead.
You stopped me from talking further and
You still taste the same.
And I still feel weak in the knees and I said I was gonna slap you
But my hands hang on my sides.
And all I can do was bite your tongue.
But I didn't.

The afternoon was too warm my eyes felt droopy.
And I really wanted to believe that it's the weather.
And I really wanted to stop myself and scream at you.
But the walls missed you too much
Even the china and the carpet on the bedroom floor.
I wanted to send you away, out of my life

But my voice was black and white.
and your shirt seams were crumpled.
And the last thing I heard was bones cracking
and my eyelids shutting close.