Quakes

And when the earthquakes come, the really bad ones, I forget where I am. 

The floor becomes lava and I'm already on fire, rocking back and forth to put myself out.

My breath becomes a sputtering fire extinguisher, like a car that won't start,

that just splutters and dies out and splutters again.

When my body hits a magnitude of 7.5 on the Richter Scale and the lava has destroyed everything around me, like a twisted turn to a children's game,

I lie on the floor that I'm not supposed to touch and I feel the paint coming off the walls, my walls, to reveal the old layer. Like being stripped of the clothes on your back and watching them burn right in front of your eyes, the inevitable damage of this quake knocked the wind out of me.

The walls are melting and caving in, the floor is lava, my house is destroyed, my body is on fire, I cannot seem to breathe, the floor is lava, the floor is lava, the floor is lava, my house is lava, the floor is lava, the floor is lava, the floor is lava--

The shaking stops. There is no aftershock. I look around at the mess I created, the mess that sneaked its way into my house and lit the match on my skin...

And I rebuild.

The floor is solid.

The walls are painted. 

They are no longer caving in.

I am fine.