Fragmentation

Fragment 18.)

The first food my mother ever taught me to make was toast. Taught me how to set the timer. Pull out the toasted bread carefully and to unplug the toaster. Scoot it to the side away from the wooden cabinets. We don't want the house to burn down.

Now it has been over a year since I have seen my mother. And over five years since I had slept in the house I buried my first dog next to. This morning I made toast. The kitchen so cold, your feet could literally ice over. This house is so cold I don't remember what burning feels like. Floors tiled in hollow egg shells, my legs get cut up when one of them gets cracked.

I miss the feeling of home. I miss the way I could walk comfortably  without waking hell below me. Miss the couches, the family dinners in the living room, my home. I miss being home.

And now it is so cold my nightmares are wrapped in blankets, sitting on my bed. I have experienced sleep paralysis several times but when it happens here, it is like my body is fighting to wake me up. Shaking me like a club on top of an earthquake, my body shivers. I was dreaming so cold I could freeze to death.

I am begining to see ice on my ceiling and my breath in the air as thick as cigarette smoke. My throat burns like running in winter. This body is too young to have joints pulled taut to tendons and muscles. Everything is just so blue and bruised.

I used to obsess over fireworks. Loved the way they flutter and sparkle and just dare to burn out. Now I just want to set bottle rockets nose diving into bath tubs and insulation. I want fucking roman candles shooting stars into the cabinets and the couch. I want this house to feel something besides frigid. I want to feel something beside hate so strong it leaves frost bite on my heart.

So,
I made toast this morning. Left the toaster plugged into the socket. And slid it under the wooden cabinets.