In memory, it is nobody’s fault.
The authority puts the wood burning stove out. The ashes
stir back to life.

I flit back and forth between the bedroom and hallway,
waiting for the authority to allow me to leave.
The fire scales the porch and burns from the attic down.

I turn at the foot of the stairs,
just in time for the glass to shatter the window, for the
flames to break in.

I run for the door, and I stop out front,
get sent back, then get told to leave
the rest for the firemen to fetch.

In memory, I watch everything burn.
The cats walk around for days
with charred steak in their mouth.

But in dreams, I always start
the fire by mistake myself. I glance back and forth
with but the voice in my head,

feet in one spot—
just trying to decide
whether to risk by putting the fire

out, whether to call for help,
or whether to let
the fire burn.

In my dreams,
I let
everything burn.

I debate between duty,
willful destruction,
or safety,

and I decide to survive.
I prioritize my life.
I run, and I do not stop

until I know I will be safe
and free.
I let my anxiety

do what she wants,
accomplish her goals,
and complete her circles.

I choose agency again and again,
until I don’t feel angry for not—
nor guilty for—

granting myself autonomy anymore.