Fragmentation

Fragment 19.)

Don't trust white houses with white carpets. Do not let the tapestry trick you into appreciating thick colorless fabric. Any memory you drop onto the rug will stain into the fibers of your history no matter how much you try to bleach it out. Guests will come over and ask " What is that red stain by the fire place?"  "Why are there wine stains on your couch. There are hand prints on the windows. Who are you trying to get away from?."

They'll most likely just assume you are careless and don't clean. But I have scrubbed that white carpet with every chemical in the medicine cabinet till my finger tips turned blood and bone. You can not tell me I haven't tried to scrub bleach into these eyes to try to get rid of every memory I had of sweat and weeds and poison crawling  up these walls.

The basement held so many unholy happenings I was scared to go down there without a pocket knife and my living will in my back pocket. Cement floors like frozen lakes I thought I could fall into whatever hell waited for me below.

And all I can remember about leaving was everyone telling me how upset I was.

Upset about leaving behind such a nice house. A fireplace, a finished basement, marble countertops, and such nice, white carpets.

They say it with such confidence, like they think they have all the right to throw up their tongue on my nice, white carpet.

Let me tell you something, it wasn't the house I was going to miss but the history. As much bleach I use it will always stain my skin.

I have lived through worst than stained carpets and cigarette burns. I have invited the devil over to have coffee. Told him what good work he was doing but he needed to step his advertising up a bit. He complimented the marble table top and before he left I told him "See you soon."
I have leapt from tall buildings only to nose dive into pavement so soft I thought it to be my mother's hands the first time she held me.
Nosebleeds run up and down my bedroom walls like lazy vines and the memory of my first crush is still imprinted on the floor of the tree belt behind my white house.

So don't tell me the carpets are nice and the living room was so lovely, there was no living going on there. The curtains hung like dead hair from sugar glass windows.
And I am so tired of lazy, dead things.