You told me I seemed haunted.
It was 3am and you could still smell the storm clouds under my skin.
You can’t quell depression by making love.
But we tried.
But we tried,
oh, we did.
The apocalypse was quiet. It had a way about it, a certain charm. It could be called graceful. It was taking a long time.
People prepared for an apocalypse that they could take up arms against, bunker down with. People hoarded filtered water, canned corn, dry milk, batteries. They published books on how to get things done in the new post-world, a world that they always imagined as being much like our own, only missing one or two key things. They might imagine, for example, that survivors would reemerge onto a planet stripped of all vegetable and plant life. First, the animals would grow vicious and then starve. It would be important to hoard as many of these animals as possible, pack them in salt and hide them away to keep. You’d want to have a supply of emergency seed to grow in a secure location, maybe using sterilized soil that you had already hoarded. Then you’d want to gather a crew. One muscle man with a heart of gold, a scientist type, an engineer, a child, and somebody that you thought maybe you could love, if you survived long enough to love them.
So, you kiss him, and he doesn’t move, he doesn’t
pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn’t moved,
he’s frozen, and you’ve kissed him, and he’ll never
forgive you, and maybe now he’ll never leave you alone.
When people say ‘This is my baby,’ they don’t always mean a baby. Sometimes they mean a dog.
heathers + musical numbers
Dead Girl Walking
Sorry but I really had to wake you
See, I decided I must ride you ‘til I break you
‘Cause Heather says I gots to go
You’re my last meal on death row
Shut your mouth and lose them tighty whities