anonymous asked:


it’s the end of the world and the beginning of summer
there are bruises on your fingertips from when you tried to do a cartwheel
and tripped on your own legs
and your friends laughed and laughed because they’re assholes and because
these days, there’s not much to laugh about anymore so
you gotta grab it where you can, take those moments by the horns like cattle
wrestle them to the ground just to feel alive for eight seconds
because at the end of the world, eight seconds is a lot
and you trip jumping out of her window, she laughs, says
you’d trip over a painted line if you could, but all the parking lots are crumbling
so you guess you’ll never know
and your friends come tumbling out after, always chasing one another
none of you is ever in the lead for very long and you think it’s always been like this–
a stream of tangled limbs and ripped jeans and scabby leather jacket, clouds of smoke like crowns around your heads, queens of bad breath and lung cancer
queens of racing down the back roads, all piled into her tahoe, half-mud and half-engine oil, and you love that car, don’t think you’ve ever loved anything as much as you love that stupid car and it doesn’t even make sense because it’s not like it’s fast or luxurious like one of those streamlined muscle cars, the ones that never go out of style–you aren’t even convinced tahoes were ever really in style but you love it, you love the rust freckling the doors and blooming on the hood like flowers, like the wild fires that ate up california when you were still a kid and convinced that the world’s expiration date wouldn’t come for years and years, yet, convinced you still had time, convinced you still had anything close to a future
queens of rolling your own cigarettes because the price of tobacco is through the roof, the price of everything is through the roof, one last boom for the economy before the planet calls it quits, and so your fingers grew long and nimble, good for swiping bags of loose-leaf from your uncle’s counter, good for pinching the corners of papers still slick with saliva, good for streaking copper-brown powder down the bridge of her nose as she laughs and you think
it matches her freckles and you think i want to take her in my mouth and hold her in my lungs and die from the inside out, like the earth will
and it isn’t fair, because it’s not like you had anything to do with it, the earth was already dying long before you knew what dying meant, and you still remember when you were young and your parents dragged you to one of those outside sermons, the kind with cloth tents, white like the belly of a fish, and everyone sang hymns about life and renewal, and a woman passed a hemp bag full of seeds, which everyone held like it was sacred, a different body and blood, and you all buried a handful in the tilled, dry earth, laying hands on the field like you would a broken body, calling for God to heal all its wounds
months went by and nothing grew, and the tents came down, and your parents stopped singing
and now you’re left scraping your knees against the corpse of a world that you never had time to get to know, and it isn’t fair that you’ll never get to see an ocean, and it isn’t fair that all the forests are dead and gone, burned up like match sticks, and it isn’t fair that everyday feels like it’s being rationed, like soon enough, there won’t be enough days to go around
it isn’t fair that this is the portion of life sliced out for you: seventeen years, a lightning-strike adolescence, but few things are fair and you eat with both hands–you’ll burn out, like all things, but first you will burn
and at least you have this, have them, other girls made of teeth stained from gorging themselves on life, shoes untied and hair unbrushed, hopping fences and climbing through windows, queens of slithering into places that aren’t yours, queens of taking what you want because it’s not like you have time to do things the hard way, always racing, always jumping, always climbing, like you might outrun death itself
if this is all you get, then at least you have her, freckles like stars tucked in her skin, and you know that everyone is made out of the same dust as stars, but you think that maybe she has a little more than the rest of them, you think that maybe if you put your tongue on her skin, you might taste infinity  
queens of laying out on the rooftop, sprawled like starfish drying in the sun, a slow death looking up at the sky, watching the colors change around you and you heard that years and years ago when your parents were your age, the sky was blue
what kind of blue? you’d asked and no one could seem to agree on the answer, but you find it hard to believe that any shade could be prettier than the splash of citrus-orange that it is now, like a mouthful of fire yawning down on you
queens of racing summer, squeezing time like a tube of toothpaste, pressing your fingers to the end, mindful to get every spare drop because if this is it, if this is what you get, then by God you’re gonna get all of it, you’re gonna wash your teeth with each inch of burning sky until it’s nothing but smoking embers
queens of midnight runs down to the dairy queen in her beat-up tahoe, and it’s just the two of you because the others couldn’t make it out tonight, so she turns up the radio as loud as it can go and rolls down all the windows and you stick your head out in the rush of air so clogged with heat that you can’t even think, can’t even see, eyes stinging and watering and you don’t know if it’s the wind or the music or the thought that all of this will end soon, and she takes your hand without taking her eyes off the skyline 
and this is what you hold in your hands like spare change: the duct taped leather seats of her tahoe, the old journey song blasting on the radio, the air like gulps of tobasco down your throat, and her, always her
the ice cream melts quicker than you can eat it, soft and sticky on your wrists and dirt-stained fingers, and she tastes like mint chocolate chip when she kisses you, eyelashes lit up in yellow neon, sunsets on her cheeks, and this feels like a beginning too
it’s the last day of summer and you lay out side by side in the field of dead sunflowers, because nothing has grown this far south in a long time, nothing but girls like you two, queens of hearts greedy like wildfires, queens of cockroaches, queens of being where you don’t belong, and you think you might trick yourself into thinking you could survive this, you’ve survived so many other apocalypses, smaller apocalypses, and each time you thought for sure that you wouldn’t make it through, and each time you did
and this is what you hold in your hands like cold water: the sun beating down on you like a ticking clock, her mouth on the scars of your knuckles, the last half of your last cigarette held in your lips, burning you from the inside out, the swan-song of cicadas drowning out your parents’ radio, emergency broadcast leaking out through open windows
–is it, folks, time to head down to the storm cellar and barricade the doors, make sure to have enough food and water to last at least three years–
the sky is a freshly juiced orange, a scab picked too soon, a pool of melted candle wax, still hot, an open mouth, still hungry
she kisses you, chasing the last bit of smoke, hearts too greedy for your chests
you let that sky swallow you whole

Okay so this tickled my fancy. According to this one fundamentalist researcher named David Meade, the apocalypse will begin on September 23rd, which is also bi visibility day. And I cannot think of anything more appropriate. Like honestly, if anything was gonna end the world it’d be our fucking community, and I’ve never been prouder of all the bisexuals out there. Let’s get out there and slay (literally)!!