the world ended for the first time when i was eleven: the news sang sweet songs of
expiring calendars and a black antichrist for president
(, god, what's this country coming to?).
in my own head, i dreamt of the
blackness of after-earth, the sound of
everyone becoming no one, with no more
dogs to feed, no more
cars to drive, no more
flags to pledge allegiance to in the mornings. without all the distractions of sky and
politics and hungry mouths, i wondered what would be
left of us all: skin and bones in business casual clothes that meant
nothing to a god who
created because he was bored and destroyed because
we became too ugly to look at. it will be a
sweet sound, i thought as the tvs and the radios and the telephones hummed and
wings, hovering over a new disaster. the sound a
black hole makes when it chews.
Abigail Diaz is an aspiring poet. She has been practicing fiction for five years and poetry for two. Currently, she has had poetry published in The Sheepshead Review, Rock & Sling, The Ear Literary Journal, and the San Antonio Public Library 2019 Young Pegasus Anthology. She is currently a freshman in college and is majoring in English, with hopes of publishing poetry and fiction full-time.