“you ripped the knife from his back and slashed your family portrait in half.
your lies spread like wildfire.
your voice is the wind that fans the flames.
your insecurities fill the can of gasoline.
even though you’re not around, you’re burning the home we’re trying to build to the ground.
he’s afraid to cross the flames, doesn’t want to be burned.
i tell him it’s okay, but sometimes the blaze is too loud.”—lines from a poem in progress, by me of course