For a dwelling so small, it was gargantuan.
That house came crashing down, crushing
my chest. Forced to gnaw and swallow
paint, I tasted chalk and lead.
My stomach burned but
I couldn’t throw up; insides already coated,
calendar pages filling until food wouldn’t fit.
Despite the odds, when the time came,
I flew. Like Icarus. Somehow, I rose,
but my wings did not melt.
I reached up blackened hands and grasped a Sun.
Image: Superposition of Fall of Icarus (René Milot) with a burnt house (mrd-stock)