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House

Our relationship was the children's game of house.

By Madeline PetersonPublished 6 years ago 1 min read
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Our relationship was the children’s

game of house, and before you

told me you wanted to stop playing,

you had already changed the game.

You became a fire breathing dragon,

while I kept pretend cooking

in my pretend kitchen your favorite

pretend foods and pretend sleeping

next to you in our pretend bed.

I’m quite good at playing house.

I took on my role to perfection.

I’m not ashamed to say I played

pretend girlfriend exceptionally well.

You could have at least pretended

to appreciate that.

I should’ve stopped playing when

you blew fire at me with your dragon

mouth. Like the time you threw the

bottle of Fireball on the sidewalk. Why

didn’t I just let you walk away? You

cannot pretend composure still, you

walking away was not closure.

I am left pretending not to care.

But while you’re off imagining

yourself—sharpened teeth

and scales, my house begins

to transform. Indestructible

gray stone walls become a barrier

between worlds. You can’t hurt me

anymore. Safe from flame, safe

from pain, I pretend.

You can’t hurt me anymore.

sad poetry
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About the Creator

Madeline Peterson

21-year-old creative writing major at MSU.

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