What Doesn't Alert

I stood on the chair to see

the dusty white plastic that's meant to protect me,

reached up to the ceiling where it sits,

that broken thing, bit by bit.

The button was dusty, yellowed and old,

the plastic had cracked, I was told

by the very fact that I'd find

it useless, left far behind.

I pressed the button. Nothing.

Not a sound, not a thing,

nothing to warn me of fire,

nothing to help me escape dire.

I pressed it again. Still silence.

The alarm's complete defiance

of doing what it's supposed to do—

to keep me safe, to alert me true.

I stood there on the chair,

realizing no one's there

to help me if something goes wrong,

that I've lived here all along

believing this thing would save me,

that it would protect and claim me,

would sound if the walls caught flame—

but it won't, it's a sham, a name

for something that stopped working

years ago, been lurking,

dead on my ceiling, a lie,

a false hope that won't comply.

I got down from the chair.

Left the alarm sitting there,

dusty, useless, a fake—

and realized I'm on my own, for my sake.