The flames started small, at first, small enough to ignore. It started in the forest where the butterflies lived. I thought it was normal, with time things change and butterflies find a new home. I wish I knew then that butterflies run away when heat overwhelms them, when threatened with fire.

Quickly the flames spread, from the forest, moving a little closer to home. I saw the signs and thought I was enough to calm them on my own. I tried to water down the things that made the fires rage; like my emotions, like the words that would make you see me as undesirable and when sparks would appear from thin air, I would hold my breath, hoping to not give air to bigger fires but that only made things worse.

Once they started burning down the memories we stored in picture frames, I could no longer see my face in the version of us that used to be happy. I knew we had to take notice and I could no longer save us alone. The table and chairs, we would use for conversation and patience became wood and caught alight, so we would struggle to find places to meet half and talk things out. You saw what you wanted to see, the ambers that didn’t require you to compromise.

Our world was on fire and you ignored it. You were comfortable in the hell you now called home, the flames no longer bothered you. The foundation had burned down and all you cared was that we were still together, that I was still close enough to hold your hand. We could have walked away, found a new place to rebuild all we had but you were too attached to the matches you received as a child.