ERIN LYNDAL MARTIN
FIREFLIES OF THE APOCALYPSE
It seems natural that I should want
to keep my blood, want teeth
and closed circles here in lakefront
country. I step into the cool timeout,
gray skirt on thighs. Constellations
rearrange themselves like codeine.
I live in a world without any physics.
It’s not like childhood at all, or even
hypnosis. Past, I want to
be good to you, only look at all
the retching I’ve done over ill-gotten
fruit. Adrenaline means I make energy,
use it to rattle these bones and these
coffins. Tell me to put my howl
in a box. Tell me how the night’s
a velvet sleeve. Tell me you still
take photographs. I almost
recognize myself again,
and then I keep trying to catch up.
I ONLY LIE WHEN I LIVE IN A WORLD WHERE TRUTH NO LONGER HAS ANY MEANING
My favorite selfie has not enough artificial light
hitting the side of a tear on one cheek and some snot
dripping down my mouth. I think it is okay to be ugly
once if you are pretty the rest of the time. Boys like girls
whose dogs were hit by cars. It is more difficult
to describe complex trauma-related revictimization
in your online dating profile. For my next trick
I’m going to drop a hundred pounds
and be a washing machine sales rep who’s ready to settle down.
I have it on good authority that the apartment where I bled
and bled is now occupied by a pothead
who describes himself as “spiritual”
and has a magic-marker-shaped penis.
Mob mentality says that bats are an important part
of the ecosystem, even when that ecosystem
is my living room. Next time somebody tells me that,
I am going to take their baby and put it in a room
with nothing but a swooping bat.
If the baby gets rabies, somehow it will be my fault.
People are like that these days.
I like to think I’d be unapologetic, like when somebody
tickles me after I have said “don’t ever tickle me
or I will fight back.” I am proud when I draw blood
and only say “I told you so.” I think I am done forever
with apologizing for anything, and the next time
I fuck up, I will just make a new profile.