The World Keeps Ending, and the World Goes On

by Franny Choi

Human History, a front parlor infinitely painted over with massacre, and into the fray came I, highly allergic, quick to cry, and armed with fat fists of need.

it was too late for the earth to yield anything but more corpses.

If not even my memories love me enough to stay, then fine, cut off the hands that keep me married to any history.