The House Still Burns

I have never endured anything traumatic enough to experience any slow-motion effect, but as September slips into October, I wonder if this is what you are. A rental car racing into a head-on collision at the intersection, speeding, and yet time slows just long enough to catch the bobblehead perched upon the dashboard of the Lexus. A childhood house engulfed in flame, thick smoke curling over the white picket fence like syrup over Sunday morning pancakes.

You are an accident in the making. I watch you decompose over time, devolve into nothing but trembling fingers and empty promises. I am young and stupid and I don't know how to fix this, but I try. I have to try.

The gas station liquor burns the back of your throat like a bed of hot coals and every cloud of cigarette smoke chokes me in tandem with your lies.

"I love you."

"Sorry, I can't help it."

"I just need this right now, you know its been a long day."

I laugh and shake my head because it has been a long day, but its always a long day and its been quite a long year watching you break yourself to pieces like this. You aren't getting better. The unspoken truth of it hangs between us like a physical weight.

You're burning yourself out like a match. Soaking your brain cells in vodka and TV static until you can't think straight enough to hurt anymore. I look away because I love you too and you're breaking my heart.

I didn't understand yet, but watching things play out in slow-motion didn't change the outcome. Vivid details burn themselves onto the inside of my eyelids, melting plastic Barbie dolls sprawled across the burning lawn, red traffic lights caught in the polished surface of the Lexus, fingers curled in a white-knuckle grip around the neck of a bottle.

In the end, the house still burns. The car still crashes. You still break yourself to pieces.

September slips into October, and I learn.