Third Degree Devotion

It started with a flicker behind her eyes.
Nothing you’d call fire.
Just a light you couldn’t trust.

The walls pulsed.
The floor groaned.
She said it was fine.
She said it was you.

You stayed.
Because love, right?
Because loyalty.
Because if someone you love is on fire, you don’t leave.
Until you do.

Because the smoke started whispering your secrets.
The rooms shifted when you blinked.
You lost track of the exits.

She said the doctors were liars.
Said her blood was full of knives.
Said you put them there.

And still — you opened every window.
You peeled back your own skin and offered it like insulation.
You said: I will burn if you just stay.
She laughed.
Walked deeper into the heat.

You don’t realize it until later, but the air stopped tasting like oxygen a long time ago.

You tried to drag her out by the wrists.
She bit you.
Called you poison.
Said your love was a diagnosis.

So you ran.
Barefoot.
Naked.
Hands blistered.
Lungs full of ghosts.

You left everything in that house.
Your voice.
Your trust.
The version of her that hummed in the shower and kissed you like the world was ending.

Now the house flickers at the edge of your dreams.
A smoldering thing that knows your name.
You smell it in parking lots.
In strangers’ sweaters.
In your own sweat.

People say: “She’s not dead” as if that means anything.
As if you didn’t already attend the funeral in her eyes.

And the truth?

You still look back.
Of course you do.
Because some part of you still thinks you left something inside.

A photo.
A promise.
Your fucking name.