Never Met Me

We play a father-daughter relationship out. I ignore you, resent you for stopping my suicide, we bicker about dead family members, camp rules: who should have guns, who can fire one, where we should sleep supposing anyone sleeps anymore anyway? There’s nothing unbroken including my eight hours, Donald Trump’s four, and it’s like birthing babies, staying up with them, stopping them screaming; I’d need sedation if I gave birth here, for me, my offspring, group members sure that baby’s screams were drawing the infected closer like errant helicopters, gunshots, whispering. I know longevity’s a thing of the past, an option I pass up through default than any actual want or un-want, but in the other world, the before one, if your wife left, we might have ended up in bars playing out entirely different scenarios with other dynamics, which would’ve led us to rooms rather than tents, and we’d have enjoyed telling each other what to do, then.


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