I thought of the sound of a lawnmower ripping through the grass outside my bedroom window as I tried to sleep.
Scratch. Scratch.
The blades swirling around the device, the irritating combination of concrete pavement and metal as the mower turned around to cut another strip of grass would surely keep me up. The stench of dead foliage would cling to the air and fill my nostrils with a desire to escape. It reminded me of a mortar grinding wheat. I had seen several small ones at the store on an early outing. I bought the poncho you told me was cute, not knowing you'd make fun of me every time I wore it.
You told me I was your home. I told you your arms were the most comfortable place to lay my heart.
I wasn't lying. But I don't make homes out of people. I let them make homes out of me. I invited you in, a welcome mat to greet you, warm lighting to make you feel comfortable. You'd decorate my walls with secrets that made me feel special to temporarily own them.
The first time we met I ate exactly one and a half mozzarella sticks. You wore a dark sweater, button-up shirt, tannish shoes, and a tan watch. I couldn't remember what type of pants you wore. Your hair was slicked to the side and you offered me a hand shake as your first introduction.
I made my house into everything you wanted. A strong, sturdy door you could rest your back against when you felt lost, the corner hook to hang your stress on, the large bay window where we would sit and pull back the curtains of our comfort levels. Every layer of clothing we'd pull off each other was another wall being broken down in behalf of trusting another.
I stitched you into my life effortlessly, wrapping your fabric around my waist, matching patterns and textures with my own. I didn't notice the snag in the back. Once you cut silk, it starts to unravel, and if you're not ready to sew the pieces together, you'll lose the original luster, and the cloth entirely. You can keep the pieces pinned together for a good amount of time before that process happens, and finish cutting through the rest of roll, but only a strong stay-stitch will ensure its life. You had handed me the scissors, but I didn't notice how quickly I snatched them out of your grasp. I didn't notice the shaking of your hands.
You let me inside your house. You unlocked the door and gave me the grand tour, not entirely confident of the establishment you owned. The old rug that kept tripping your feet up as you walked outside had been there for years, and you couldn't get rid of it. I had wanted to. And I tried. What you didn't see was how sturdy the hardwood floors the rug covered were. Instead, you clung to the old thing, your staple in a house you weren't always comfortable in.
Three weeks was all it took to renovate the guest room to a place you could stay for as long as you wanted. I felt so sure of the color of paint I had picked out. You'd love it, I knew it. You'd park your shoes by the door, take my hand, and pick strands of my hair off our shirts as we kissed and talked about our day. I didn't notice they were strands of silk. We'd lay underneath the comforter and swap words from notebooks crumpled around the edges from gripping in anticipation of what the other thought about the passages written inside. You weren't confident in the pen you used, and would often simply scribble in the margins until you felt like you could finally start a new page. I didn't notice that where I bought a three-subject notebook, you had only bought a one. I never told you I thought that was the last notebook you'd ever buy.
You were the first one to admit it. We sat in your car outside my place, not wanting to part just yet, egging each other on to finish the sentence. Finish the sentence. I wanted to hear it so badly. I needed it to be real. I knew how sturdy the floorboards underneath the rug were. I knew your feet wouldn't hit splinters unless you put them there yourself. I didn't notice the silk getting caught in the car door as I went back to my house for the night.
I had never felt so lost when I let you bulldoze the foundation. What I once thought was cement turned out to be grey-colored paper, and your words pierced through it easily, spilling out the contents of my kitchen and dinning room. You hastily tried to put everything back together; you saw that I was alone. I wanted to burn the house down, but you didn't let me. I didn't understand why you held a bandage to the wound you inflicted, but I couldn't let you stop or else I feared I'd bleed out.
Your shoulders were heavy as I felt them shake against me, your breath hot and ragged against my neck. I never told you that in that moment, I stopped and asked myself, why didn't I feel anything, just then, just as you started to sob. I didn't tell you that I noticed the cut in the silk.
I didn't tell you that I knew it wouldn't last.
I didn't understand it myself, but as you cried and told me you loved me and you were back, I knew it wasn't true. You weren't lying, I would bet money on it, but the words turned out to flightless phrases passed in desperation instead of passionate realizations of how sturdy the hardwood floors underneath the old rug were. But I did everything in my power to push aside what I knew, and cried in joy as you held me and whispered in my ear that you were in love with me. I believed it. We both wanted it to be true.
I knew where it was headed when you said you needed to talk in person. But as you flirted with me across a pool table, I found myself wanting to lock my front door. You whispered your devilish charms in my ear and kissed me, the same kiss that made me weak. I had wanted it more than anything, and as I listened to you backtrack yourself again, I felt my body grow heavy and stiff. You had nailed the old rug to the floor, and didn't want to believe that you couldn't find the hammer to pull out the rusty metal stakes. I still don't believe it.
I told you you were a coward and left in anger. You stared at your dashboard as I left. The hammer was on the top shelf of your kitchen, next to the matches, and the scissors. But when you climbed the step-stool to reach for the handle, the creaking sound of the gears frightened you. I was trying to tell you that I was there, holding the step-stool in place. You tried to reach again, and I secretly cheered you on as I thought I saw you grab the hammer.
You grabbed the matches.
