I'm thinking of turning it in for workshop next week, but I'm not sure.
Somebody's Always Killing Their Loved Ones
When the zombies come for us,
with their rotten meat stench and paralytic shuffle,
I'm afraid we'll have to break up.
Not because I'll feel less of an attraction to you
or we'll argue about who gets to use the chainsaw,
but because I know that we'll inevitably be locked
in a room together in some abandoned warehouse,
strip mall, or grocery store. And you know how it is
in the movies, when the intrepid survivors find themselves
trapped in a room, doors and windows securely boarded up -
somebody, a mother, a best friend, a lover, is always hiding
the fact that they've been bitten.
I'd rather succumb to the zombie hordes outside and let
myself become a part of the mindless zombie oblivion
than have to kill you. Or, if I'm the one lying about the blood
seeping through the leg of my pants, I wouldn't want
you to shoulder that burden.
Yes, I know that our self-preservation instincts will overcome
our love for one another. You'll trip over something grotesque
and I'll think for a minute of saving you, maybe, but the zombies
will be right behind us. Better you just head north, and I'll make
for the coast. In a few years after this all blows over,
perhaps we'll agree to meet in Poughkeepsie and talk about old times
and laugh about how stupid those zombies were.