And because you are of a kind, the house knowsyou. When you cry out,the lights flicker, ghostly blue and ragged.When she says you are shut off,the light switches nod their white tinyheads. Tiles creak yes beneath heredicts—something bad must have happenedto make you this way, the waywhere you don’t want her. But the windowsrattle, disagree. In their honeyed,blindless light, they see it—something badis happening.

This is how I know I believemy own story—that even when I thinka part of me should still love you, evena little, I want the world to burn beforeyou come close to anyone I love again,even with your kind self.