This is what it's like to burn down the house around you,
To be struck by falling beams and blame your own antsy impatient hands.
To hear other people burn alive with you,
Beg them to leave but watch them try to save you, feet planted and committed.
Their hands wring and sweat as they pull you along,
But you have dedicated yourself to limp dead weight,
No longer a partner in the discourse.
You're giving them the out, they need to save themselves more than you need to be saved.
She looked at me one last time,
And let go of my hand.
I wished that, as her fingerprints zippered against mine,
I was a better man.
But by then,
I was promised to be a victim,
And she had to go.