by Megan Amero
how easily i seem to let myself
harden in the mold
of an alien existence, not a drop
seeping through the cracks
in the fight to forget
this wasn’t always normal.
i was often told, in between memories
of childhood ease and clarity,
that if the world managed to end,
one might still find cockroaches
crawling among a landscape of
twisted iron and rusted skeletons
and stagnant pools of toxic water.
though i have the utmost faith
in their thick little shells, i wonder
if we are selling our hard heads short.
after all, each day
i pour myself out, carbon copies
in the cast again and again—
steadfastly ignoring the
million little ways the world has already ended.