“I’m going to break up with him when I get back.”

You disappeared on a plane to Paris.

His face when I told him (why did I tell him?)

In vulnerability, beauty.

I kissed the boy who called himself yours.

I’ll never forget

His lust-drenched lips

Your clenched fists

Betrayal

I am great at

Seeing things that aren't there,

Picking out the bad bits and over-analyzing them.

Noticing a flicker of light, and seeing a blaze that

Hasn't even started.

It's the potential of the thing.

When I see it, I'd rather

Burn the world to ashes and smoke

Before I let you see me, ruin me.

I'd rather fan the flames than

Risk making myself

Vulnerable.

A spark, a flicker of a flame,

I'm going to burn this shit,

An epic inferno.

Or maybe, just this once,

I can

See you for who you are,

Love you despite our challenges,

Douse that fucking flame,

Let you see me how I am: broken.

"You know how that happens, right?" (I'm pretty sure kids come from thin air, or is it from eating too much pizza? I need a refresher.)

"What, you guys don't have a TV?" (Because television is the cornerstone of any successful relationship.)

"Wow, you have your hands full!" (Want to help? No? Then keep moving, people!)

All the time.

I usually smile and say something like, "Yes, I'm blessed. My kids are awesome."

She always knew exactly what to say. There was a perfect turn of phrase flowing from her red lips in the fraction of a second where it belonged. It was as if her words and the moment fused together, creating something glorious that never existed before but felt perfect.

My friends always loved her "because she was so young." Her toes were always a seductive shade of crimson and her hair fell in waves across her face like a chocolate fountain. Her set of skills included: poetry, painting, sewing, baking, and interesting, eloquent conversation.

She was my mother.

When I turned 11, she used her red lips to seduce another man that wasn't my father, or even my step-father.

When I turned 13, she used her swaying words to spread lies that caught me and burned me to ashes. I had to go away.

When I turned 16, she used her youth to convince yet another man, a boy, really, to share her bed. Like a siren, she brought him in with promises of rapture, only to beat him to death against her stone cold nature.

She still knows how to turn a phrase, I'm sure. I wouldn't know, because I cannot hear her anymore. I may have been birthed out of a microcosm with perfection on the outside and putrid, rotten secrets on the inside, but it no longer defines me. I am immune to the illusion.

The air was thick, sweet caramel,

Or pure maple syrup, gooey,

I don't know how it happened,

But it truly made me moody,

Under different circumstances,

I would have been rejoicing,

To have such sweet, delicious treats,

A case for self-indulging.

I'd make the best food you could find

For miles and miles around,

My friends would join in revelry,

The deliciousness abound.

A swimming pool of ice cream,

For the sundae of my dreams,

And a mountain of tall pancakes,

With a little sweetened cream.

Alas, today, 'tis not the case,

The truth, you must believe:

For clarification, it's a sweet illustration,

Of waking when I cannot breathe.

My weakness in life, not just in writing, is that I am deathly afraid of finishing anything. It doesn't matter if you're talking about finishing the last dirty dish in the sink, completing a quilt, or editing and perfecting a story; I suck at finishing. I am getting better at it, and I make myself finish at least one project every month, but I am still fighting myself every step of the way. I get in the way of myself, standing around a dark corner with my foot out to trip myself because that's what I've always done.

My strengths are: fierce determination, a love of words, the discipline to commit to writing every day whether I feel like it or not, and deep emotions that I can only express when I'm writing.

I have always loved to read, loved the way a book can swallow you whole and spit you out as a new person. Books have floated me through my life, dragged me kicking and screaming through my life, and whisked me away when I needed it the most. Books have bonded me to people more than dinners together, conversations over coffee, or longs walks through the woods.

And there's love; I have love. Without that, how could I write even the smallest word worth reading?

The menagerie that surrounds me is full of softness, fluff, and enough sweetness to satisfy any little girl's longing for love. A giant owl with big blue eyes appliqued on even larger white circles stares me down. A neon pink bear wearing a dress is taking a bath. Gaba-Ala, a pure white bunny with toddler smudged fur is eating strawberries, even though he really likes carrots more.

"Want to pet my bear?" she asks me, her kind brown eyes that look just like mine plead with me: ignore my screen and play pretend with her.

There are more important things than writing right now. I have a tea party to attend.

The fire went from nothing to full inferno in less than 10 minutes. When I left my apartment to take the dogs for a walk, everything was exactly the same as it was every other night. I had to be on guard, monitoring my surroundings for drunks who didn't know better than to keep out of my personal space, or idiots fist fighting in the grassy common area, but I didn't mind the place, if I was being honest. It was better than other places I'd lived, and it was affordable. When I headed back to my second-story apartment that night, the living space above it had flames raging out of its windows, reaching to heaven with bright orange and white forked tongues. I ran across the patchy grass and up the shaky staircase.

My boyfriend, Bernard, was sleeping on our worn king mattress, my bright blue comforter crumpled at his feet. He was hot all the time, thank you, Phoenix. It didn't seem right to make a bed up without a quilt, so I neatly spread mine out every morning. It spent most of its life how it was now: tossed at the end of the bed while we slept, just in case. I was burning up by the time I made it to the bedroom, but maybe he didn't notice the inferno blazing ten feet above his head because he already felt overheated. Or, perhaps I only noticed the heat because I'd sprinted over the grass and up the steep stairs, our Australian Shepherds dragging me behind them. Either way, the air inside the tiny room was sweltering.

I shook him. "Wake up. There's a fire," I said, urgently, but not screaming, not yet. He wasn't phased. "Wake up!" This time I was urgent and firm, delivering a good, solid shake to his shoulder.

"Mmm," he mumbled and rolled over onto his other side. He was wearing shorts, the kind you wear to play basketball in, nylon or something like it, full of holes for breathability. I'd never seen him play basketball, but they were his uniform, like I wore my flip-flops year-round. Living in the desert leads to interesting wardrobe choices.

He wasn't wearing his shirt, and he was going to need it; I grabbed the red ball of fabric off the floor and threw it at him. Nothing. My heart thumped a warning as I tried to figure out how much time I had. I had no time to debate whether the fire would burn down my ceiling while I gently tried to wake Bernie up from a dead sleep. Finally, I stepped back and yelled:

"Wake up! There's a fire!"

He sat up in my bed, irritated, his brown hair sticking out from one side of his skull like a hedgehog had taken up residence there. "Fire?" he asked, his voice low and gravelly, full of exhaustion and contempt.

"There's a fire; you need to get up now!" I said, and this time I didn't yell, but I motioned wildly with my arms. "Let's go!" I said.

"Seriously?" Bernard opened his eyes a sliver and sighed. When he blew out his breath, it dragged on far longer than it needed to. I walked to the living room, looking around to decide what to take. I couldn't imagine any of it would be left if we got to come back. How did you know what was important when you only had minutes to decide? I grabbed my laptop and shoved it into its black padded bag along with my car keys, cell phone, and a case of cigarettes I'd bought earlier that day.

When I looked up, Bernie was filling up a plastic pitcher of water at the sink, the kind you make iced tea in when the temperatures pass 110 degrees and everything in the world melts. "What are you doing?" I asked him, incredulous. "Get your shoes, what do you need to grab?"

"I'm going to put this stupid fire out and go back to bed, I have a flippin' migraine," he said, walking from behind the kitchen counter with the pitcher and looking around the apartment.

"Wake up!" I screamed. "Big fire, big, huge, giant fire! This whole building is on fire!" I yelled at him, losing any cool I'd been hanging onto. Drops of sweat dripped down my forehead and into my eyes, stinging like sharp, tiny knives. At last, his eyes opened wider, his exasperation gave way to recognition, and he ran over to slip on his sandals. He set the pitcher on the counter, grabbed his wallet and keys, and took the leashes out of my hand. I ran down the stairs two at a time, the loud thud of his feet resounding behind me, and the overpowering crackle of the fire blasting the soundtrack to our evening.

There was a stucco planter box filled with lantana and Mexican bird of paradise; I pulled myself up onto the short wall and watched my life burn. Bernie was there, and we both stared in shock, but he didn't have a stake in that apartment. It might as well have been a play he was watching unfold. I imagine he saw the entire third floor and roof of the building glowing hot against the gray sky, exhaling plumes of smoke and ash. I saw my independence, my soul, my refuge from my grim past being eaten alive by combustion and vomited out in delicate flakes of ash that meant nothing.

He sat next to me on the wall and wrapped his arms around me. We were silent. We watched my universe burn to the ground. I was reduced to what was right there: Bernie, our two dogs, my bag, my car in the parking lot, and the key to a place that no longer existed. It burned long into the night; even after the firefighters beat the blaze into submission, my old, dead world smoldered and steamed before letting go of its dying breath.

Then, we did the only logical thing that we could do: we got up, and we started over. A world re-built from nothing has so much potential. It turned out to be an event that shaped my future, a catalyst for a brighter beginning than I'd ever had before. Out of ash, we built a life filled with laughter, love, and appreciation. When we had finished re-building, not only did we not miss what we'd lost, but we rejoiced over its cremation.