On Their Self Destruction

They treat the things they love like tools they shouldn't have to maintain,

replaceable until one actually breaks. Usable. Abusable,

but heartbreakingly shocking when its lifespan comes to an end.

Oil can only leak for so long before it runs out, and the engine burns itself a funeral pyre.

Philodendrons on sunny window sills wither away, and leaves yellow without water.

Their carelessness seeps into everything until empty cans scatter the apartment again.

Home-cooked meals turn to unwashed dishes, and my efforts by a hot stove don't justify their end of the deal to clean them anymore.

Subconsciously, they need all things to break eventually. They'll smash the indestructible to pieces just to prove they could.