When the world ends, it will end in red.
No silky sheets, no silver bed,
No cancer to erase my head;
Just millions of memories dead.
It’s running ’til your knees give out.
It’s a painful and eternal shout –
Blood spewing from a water spout
While all the world is plunged in drought.
It’s a billion inpatient bands.
It’s poorly executed plans,
A hostage but without demands,
A moral death with shaking hands.
It’s holes in walls, dry waterfalls,
Two creeping hands in bathroom stalls,
My sister’s broken china dolls:
Choke nostalgia ’til she thralls.
And just like that, it’s red to black-
I’m empty after the attack.
I’ll live here as the memories crack,
Just wait for her to come right back.
I sit there and I ice the burn,
Ignore the nurse’s weak concern,
Worship the ashes in her urn,
And wait for her to soon return.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.