We both know that your aunt and uncle named their seven-year-old
daughter God, just so they could pray to her for guidance.
But when the moon is full like a swollen red plum, descending into
the night sky, I’ll pray to the altar of your body instead; I’ll worship
every scar that you told me the cat caused, even when I know
they were all self-made.
Yesterday I bought a guidebook called How to Survive the Next Apocalypse
and there was a seven-word dedication typed on the very first page:
To all the leftovers
with burning hearts.
Tell me the silence that comes when you turn off all the lights
and sit in the garage, smoking, your shoulders white and cold,
isn’t louder than the sound of all the thunder
pouring its heavy body over this neighborhood.
Tell me you didn’t stay in that car in that closed-up garage
for half an hour, on a dare with yourself,
the same way in which a swimmer
holds their breath for as long as they can.
Stay out there for forty-five minutes, you said to yourself,
and no one’s gonna leave you alone again.
If this is the apocalypse, then it’s a self-made one too.
You’d be the one who’d stay in the burning building
if the fire alarm went off.