Smoke Alarms

— Eliza Prestley is a poet, student, and doggy daycare teacher based in Philadelphia and Montreal. She produces both spoken word and written work focusing on all things weird and somewhat angsty. Currently, Eliza studies Cultural Studies at Mcgill Univers

Content warning: suicide I couldn’t turn you into a metaphor that wasn’t a burning building

you you who were home whose walls I grew up in you who kept me warm you are dying your walls are burning and I can’t stop running back inside to try and save the things I left: the denim jacket I lent you your smile that time, sitting in the parking lot, when I looked into your eyes in pure awe and said “I love you, I love you, I love you” all of the times you loved me back those can’t burn too I need them but every second I’m with you I choke on smoke I start burning too skin so warped I can’t recognize my own face in a new house in a new mirror you scarred me or I scarred me because all you did was burn I’m the one who chose to run back inside I tried to sleep through all your smoke alarms tried to turn threats of suicide into lullabies tried to pretend suffocation was an okay way to practice love but love is not standing in a burning building with a watering can love is not ripping off the wallpaper hauling out the kitchen sink dissecting you for the parts I wanted and leaving the ones I didn’t to burn pretending they weren’t yours to begin with love is standing outside sometimes love is calling 911 love is caring for you enough to let someone else do it better