The Parable of the House of Smoke

Everything burning that is her.

Smoke in her room, in her thoughts.

The neighbours’ eyes peeling, the clock striking a time too late.

Sitting in her room thinking about who would mourn for her.


Crouching in one corner of her room, she is so angry.

But somebody else is screaming.

He slams the doors, the sound of his slippers stomping on the stairs.

He comes a’running.


The house is full of smoke.

The children can barely breathe.

And he puffs and puffs, their faces grey.

Creator of life.


Scattered across the maze of solitude.

Dreaming of a house elsewhere.

She thinks that nobody knows her and truly they don’t.

Everything hits her harder, detachment is an art she cannot master.


The girl attaches herself to tragedy and thunderstorms.

It’s the world she knows, the depths where she is the mistress of orientation.

Violence is an honest gesture, she can read it.

Niceties and good hearts she mistrusts and pushes away.


She was raised by demons, not only of the present but also of her ancestry.

Her tenderness is bestialised.

Sacrifices, sacrifices is all she ever hears.

Love is a verb used so often, but rings false, it is a hollow room.


Smoke invades every room.

Until there is no room.

And then he comes.

Ready to fight and scream,

The moment she stopped crying.

close up photo of woman with curly hair
Photo by Jean Alves on



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