inebriated moths

by Hannah M. J., 17

seventy or so years from now 
i will lay on my back in a creaking hospital bed dying 
and my last wish will be a milkshake 

bedsores borne from neglect, or apathy, or both leech themselves into my speckled skin 
darkening an already stretched tarp 
over yellow bones 

i will have brushed my teeth religiously— 
even as they were hollowed out by 
incessant insects 
or something of the like— 
bitter-ant pulp goes down smooth 
but leaves a sanguine spattering 
in its wake 

time will scratch rashly 
and any vestige of hygiene 
will be replaced with the jaundice 
that often precedes the 
longest nap you will ever take 

my joints will be wound up in anticipation 
even then something will bedevil me— 
an itch under my sores— 
to impugn every impulse in my senile, already rotting body and turn over 
though i know i shouldn’t 

from a throat ineffably hoarse with phlegmy death comes the plea of a younger girl 
for a milkshake 

i will nurse the thing like a child
and then all of the years that i spent sanding the skin from my hips 
so that i may feel more womanly 
will have been for naught 

i will then lay down 
looking at the ceiling 
at Him 

but also at a crack that has not been mended growing by the minute 
stumbling drunkenly across the tiles snaking around fluorescent light fixtures
that flicker stubbornly 

it seems this building is dying with me or is also equally neglected 
either way, we have a lot in common 

i will tuck myself in 
because i have to grow up 
someday

Apex, North Carolina