Destruction

There are nights you can't escape the day he ripped your cat in two
where a choking in your throat
and the nonexistent smell of uncombusted gasoline
adds to a lightheadedness
normally reserved for Mt. Everest
or the last moments of some famous author
that no one else in your high school english class enjoyed
or even bothered finishing the book
'cause no one gets laid when they're affected—
a finer point your fat friend would never grasp,
wrap her lips around,
eyes screened by hanging locks to hide welling tears.

You wonder if he ever thinks back to that day
but that's like pondering the visibility of specters across other wavelengths
because really, empathy is just another frequency
and you just want someone to resonate with you
but be careful girl
because love hurts and so does fire
so it's best to know which you're falling into.

You've stocked your kit with the appropriate cream,
readied your bag before the door to leave it behind—
you visit like a conservationist on the moon
carefully sweeping to leave no trace or footprints
just a massive crater where you first touched down
and from where you take off.
Now at the terminal you stand upon the painted line
flickering displays vie for attention but your gaze is set
towards tracks and the source of liberated air
fixated on the thought of how that train
would fucking destroy you.