Worse Things In Store

on “In the Craters on the Moon”

I was lying on the floor. I will lie on the floor. I laid on the floor. I will have lain on the floor.

(I’m on the floor, is what I’m trying to tell you.)

The floor is cool and dry and it sticks to my cheek when I lie here too long. My spit is pooling underneath me and I don’t know how long it’s been since you left. But you’re gone. You were going and now you’re gone. It could have been hours or days or weeks; I don’t have a clock. I don’t have a calendar.  I’m not even sure I have a door. There used to be an exit, but we can’t see it anymore. There are windows, I know, but we keep them covered, keep them covered, keep them covered. It’s dark now. It was and will be dark. It will be dark for the foreseeable future. It will be dark until at least next week. You used to say the light would come, but the light hurts our eyes, and now it’s been dark too long to reasonably assume there is still light to be had.

(I hope you’re in the light, wherever you are, if the light exists, if it’s something you can find. Sources say it once existed. That’s in the past tense. The light has not existed here for a very long time.)

Sometimes at night one of us will cough and the rest of us startle up like frightened animals, confused and high: it always feels like someone’s out to get us. If we leave the TV on, we won’t hear them coming. If we leave the TV on, forces gather against us out on the street. If we leave the TV on, our sickness goes technicolor. It’s better to keep it dark and guess each other’s movements like a bat hunting its prey. Cigarette glowing in a corner and bottles rustling against other bottles—one of us must know where the door is, to keep bringing these things. I wonder which one of us it is.

(I don’t know how long it’s been since you left. You were here, you left, you are gone. Your future tense is uncertain. Will you be back someday? Reply hazy, reply fleeting, reply gone. Ask again later.)

The phone still rings; we never answer it. We let it ring, it rings, it has rung, it’s silent. Try and catch us now. Try and catch us now.

Try and catch us now.

Emma Anticlimax has got rocks in her head and makes 
zines, which you can find at werewolfzines.tumblr.com
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