I sleep like a house on fire.

What I mean is

I sleep not at all.

I sleep like the ease of turning away from double-fatalities car crash.

There’s blood in the carpet.

Definitely won’t come out.

Windshield, shivered itself into bits.

And the rafters keep crumbling.

Crumble, crumble, charred-mistakes.

Too much heat to still the bones.

Too much smoke to inhale, exhale, repeat, repeat.

Eyes wide.

Like earthquake tumbles.

Seismic pulse.

Like storm, unpassing.

Like brain-thoughts, tumble-cycle spin, turn-over, spin.

Like end over end.

Eyes wide.

Mattress made of food poisoning to stomach-lining me.

I sleep like it’s vomiting me up.

Or I sleep like I’m vomiting my sleep.

Or I sleep like I’m vomiting myself.

What I mean to say is

I sleep not at all.

Six.

A scream and a crash. Something wasn’t right. The pitch was higher than normal, filled with more fear than anger, and the silence that followed was a nightmare in and of itself.

Six.

She held her eyes tight. If she just kept her eyes closed she couldn’t see. If she couldn’t see then nothing would happen. And naturally, if nothing happened then she couldn’t relive it in her sleep later.

Six.

Glass broke. Her delicate fingers curled into small, fretful fists. More screams. And then the crying in her closet. She squeezed her eyes just a bit tighter to hold back the burning salt water before opening them.

Six.

Her tiny irises slowly focused on the gentle light pouring from the shelf over her bed. A miniature castle all softly lit, light streaming through the rose window panes. Her whole room blushing in the night as it watched her dream.

Six.

Her gaze hung in the sparkling castle windows. If she slept in that castle, it would probably be quiet. Like the world had breathed in and would hold it until the morning. She’d fall to sleep to dream with a rose flush covering her and the walls, and wake to the pale yellow of the sun bathing her in daybreak. And as her eyes opened the world would exhale and she’d take in her first morning breaths.

Six.

Volume poured in from the room down the hall and the crying in the closet picked back up. A heavy sigh and dainty footsteps carried her to the small voice.

Six.

She held onto the petite hands and smiled. Her finger drug gently across the bridge of the nose and her mouth shushed and hushed. The tears slowed and the breathing calmed. And as the storm slowly seemed to quell and pass, the tiny faces began to rest.

Six.

Wood split. Screams echoed through their dreams. Booming, foreign voices tearing into the night. And she woke with a start. And she must see what calamity exploded just past her almost closed door.

Six.

Mama?

Six.

And he sat. Tears streaming. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. Glittering puddles of glass strewn across the floor. Clothes hung from the drawers in front of him, tangled around each other from being dug through in haste. The tv box playing static, and the lighting low.

Six.

And all around were the men in black. Bright lights held at their waists. Slow, deep voices dangling in the air where there should be the steady, quiet breathing of sleep.

Six.

Mama?!

Six.

And the tears pinched at her eyes. And her voice hung up somewhere in her throbbing chest.

Six.

Six.

No, baby! Go back to your room! Take your sister back, baby! It’s not safe!

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And with his eyes vacant and staring, he sat. Feet planted squarely on the carpet to the side of the bed. And his hand rested on cold metal, held as tightly as a lifeline, pushing deep into his temple.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

Six.

And that’s when the dreams ceased and the nightmares became unending.

I was 17 the first time I saw him. Like a vision sent to tempt my teenage hormones, he mowed the lawn across the street, clad in only blue work pants and steel-toed boots, his long blonde hair pulled back from his face. Clearly not a high school boy. I was a goner.

Throughout the summer, I could watch him discreetly from the front room, carefully peeking through a crack in the sheer curtains. Not that I did. OK, let's be honest, I was infatuated and dreamed of finding out who he was. I knew he worked with me, but it was a big place.

At last, I spotted him at work. Now, I needed to know his name. I managed to speak to one of his coworkers and got his name, followed by a phone number. That was the easy part.

I was shaking when I picked up the phone to call him. Surely, he wouldn't know who I was, but I was determined. When he answered, I tried to contain the tremble in my voice as I explained who I was. He knew me! Time to go in for the kill. I asked him to the Homecoming Dance and he said yes.

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The bruises spread in spring blooms across my lonely skin. Destruction tattooed as deep violet blossoms and dainty rose buds. My eyes wilting from my body’s constant insistence on standing sentry to the plagues of night. Burning words, poured out, rubbing raw against my throat. Short bursts of relief from the ceaseless, internal battle that pushes my veins, unrelentingly to the surface. My lungs certain that the blood rushing to my periphery will no longer allow them to fill. And as my eyes dance their involuntary climb towards the sky, a hand closes around my throat. And I am sure this is the end. My mouth pours, silently, ridding my bones of all the damnation. And the hand pulls me from my faults. And his mouth closes our distance as he drains the words from me. Shoving them down inside himself. And he pushes his own blazing fire down into the pit of me. Screams of light and oxygen satiating my covetous ache for grace. And he lit me up until I was all he could see. He lit me up until I was inextinguishable. He lit me up. Until I was as unending as him.