Construction Literary Magazine

Fall 2018

The girl who destroyed the world

The girl who destroyed the world
Photo by Paweł Czerwiński via Unsplash.

sees you dead.  Post apocalyptic rain and a punctured Diet
Mtn. Dew Earth, after everything has crumbled.
Finally, some peace of mind.  I missed
your call and I heard you cry to the sound of my dial tone:

 

Maybe my legs were wrapped around something other than the end of your couch.  Maybe I finally found something new to grind against, something hot and tangible.  The white heat I’ve always wanted.  Remember when I clogged your sink with Colgate?  I was so angry that I couldn’t remember my own name.  You swallowed surrender and fell back against the couch cushions that I bought.  I rang the neighbors doorbell and pressed my hands to the outside of their house, dug into the stucco summer, pig-skin pink.  I spit my nails onto their driveway.  I was in no rush; you weren’t lying there dying, after all, you were just lying.  I tripped back through our door, lips sticky, a slight red, pulling apart my split ends.  You looked up at me.  You told me you were sorry.  I popped my gum over your neck and listened to that forever heartbeat I know you have.  I’ve touched it so many times; I prodded in with a wet tongue, and you let me.  I swallowed around your sizzling veins.  You were always gagging for it.  I sat back and switched on the radio.  All I got was you, plucking your stupid guitar.  I see you dead.  I see you dead.  I look out of the living room window and pretend you’re roadkill.

 

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