The flowers rot on the windowsill.
I never expected to be the person who needed
reassurance that they are loved, but it terrifies me
to think about waking up
without the stench of decaying
roses. I am too afraid to ask for new ones.
I want to believe that there is a place
robots go to pray; they are the only ones with proof
that there is a maker.
Last week, I discovered that I am allergic
to kiwi and my antidepressants
are likely to have a fatal interaction
with over-the-counter allergy medications.
On good days, I do not pray
because I have nothing to say to God.
On bad days, I build a shrine
in the corner of my bedroom
and pray there is no afterlife,
because that just sounds exhausting.
I bake little cakes from a box mix and the smell
of chocolate mingles with the fetid roses.
I stick my head all the way into the oven
to make sure they are cooked through.
A friend comes to see how I am doing.
I offer her cake, say, “I’m still alive.” I wait
for her to take a bite. She tells me,
“These taste heavenly.”