Apocalypse In The Modern Land

By Alyssa Johnson

The stars feel artificial here

Holes poked in the cliche container, not quite enough to breath

The smoke and familiarity suffocating

I've spent a lifetime in my room

The only thing that's brought me out is some kind of sticky heat

As I lay dying, watching the flowers learn to live

Paintings on the cement back wall

Sugar has burnt to a painful tar,

Gluing my mouth into new shapes with pleasant words

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as

Our midnight pretension bleeds into morning sobriety

There is rot in my teacup

Stains on the tiles, my carpet has yet to be vacuumed

Lipstick is smeared on the bathroom mirror

And mold has begun to grow in the cracks of every windshield

There are flowers sprouting in a rocky front lawn

Small children eat watermelon,

And red stains their faces

While books fall off the shelf,

each opening to the word “serendipitous”

I feel as though

I often mourn a little girl

who read the funnies in the newspaper

I want back my suitcase with flowers

All the people I love are growing up.

I am too,

but denial keeps you young

I just watch this aging process happen

and I hope they’re all okay

By Alyssa Johnson