Armed

"Take the light
from this empty house,"
I said, and you complain.
"There you go
with that house imagery
again," you said
through gritted teeth.

I devolve into a child,
or a fiery swarm,
or whatever else you see me as,
and I am left looking upward
toward the candle
in the far window.

"Just
just
fucking take it,"
I spit, a stereotype in
every film you've seen,
every song you listen to
while angry with me.

"I left for a reason,"
you said, and I armed myself.
"You are too sick
and I am too tired."
I looked away from the candle
for the first time.
"Light is all I have.
Warmth is all I have."