The Home Ablaze

Let’s rewind the tape slowly.

You are sitting on your bedroom floor, moonstone and quartz surrounding your radiant legs, your eyes are closed but they are gleaming.

Now you are unfolding yourself, walking backwards toward the white, wooden door.

You descend into a hallway, warm feet on the cold hardwood floors.

You are entering a room with small windows and many people who are all wearing toothy smiles, with bloodied hands extended out towards you, they are all holding a piece of your heart in their deceitful hands.

Your luminescence starts to dim as you slowly tip toe backwards toward the glass-paneled French doors.

Silence climaxes as you reach the middle of the mildew infested room the darkness disorienting you, causing you to spin in counterclockwise circles your body pirouettes

into the blackness.

You are dancing now.

You are a puppet on a string.

With every plié your knees get weaker until you topple back onto the wet carpet, you are grasping the air as the current of the next room pulls you from behind.

The room on fire.

There is no door on these hinges and as you enter, you are flung from corner to corner as the smoke rises overhead the flames begin to rise now too.

You clutch your chest with innocent, sweaty palms and desperately look around for a refuge.

The flames ascend into the welcoming sky, the cotton-candy door returns to its hinges, you are tucked away safely in your rickety bed.

Let’s pause here.