When the apocalypse comes
and all the windows are shattered
and the car tires have melted into the pavement,
once all the schools and hospitals
and skyscrapers have folded in on themselves
and the last street lamp has wilted like a starving flower,
I will still want to fuck you.
We both know I can’t handle stress well.
I’m anxious, claustrophobic, and things between us
haven’t always been easy — you nitpick, I’m stubborn,
and we have been fighting
over pointless things
how you never take me anywhere nice anymore.
I saw the way you smiled at that poet
and her pomegranate metaphors SUCKED.
when a meteor crashes through
our kitchen ceiling, I will not panic.
When the locusts envelop the neighborhood
and our shower water thickens to blood,
I promise not to bite my nails.
I won’t even get angry when you don’t answer your phone —
even as the pavement begins to crack and spew like a rotten egg,
you will not get 47 missed calls in 4 minutes
(*even though we both know it’s possible).
When the news anchor finally tells us the truth —
that there is no hope — I won’t even thinking about
joining the angry mob outside
our burning apartment building.
I will put on my least flammable negligee
and I will find you.
I will crawl to you across this curdling parking lot of a city,
lick your body new again like my tongue
is God’s hand trying to erase and recreate the earth.
For 6 days straight, we will be
what makes the sidewalk blister.
Day 1: in the beginning,
I will find you, pull you into me.
Day 2: we will make the earth
and the sky jealous.
Day 3: I want you to fuck me
bent over a crumpled taxi.
4: in the graveyard of a strip mall.
5: on the steps of the capital,
in every store, on every mattress that isn’t on fire.
This world is a melting candle
we’re only using for foreplay.
Day 6: You may think I’m in denial,
that I am avoiding the bigger issue here
but you didn’t even look at me
the last time you said I love you
and, shit, if it didn’t feel like the end of the world.
I know this can’t be healthy
(pretending everything is on fire), but baby,
we could be the most beautiful wreckage
in all this smoke.
When the apocalypse does come,
I will rebuild our city with my tongue.
I will suck this world’s ashes from your fingers.
I will refuse to let the fires of this hell
be the only thing that makes us sweat.
When the apocalypse comes,
so will we.
– Sierra DeMulder