If god calls, or your mother does, be ready. Actually, you’ll be ready because your beliefs are fated and the voice said early, “This is your craft,” and every youth group ministry meeting you’re interviewed at, you start with, “It picks you,” and “You just know,” and “Calendar plots,” and Sarah says, “Fate,” and you say, “Yes,” and you’re a stage-floor second connection close to a marriage proposal as you’ll get and “Is she young enough” is a consideration, eventual concession, and century old vampires should want for elders not wives, but cliche prevails relationship-wise and 17 is a prime number. A missionary’s mission is never over.

She Knew Where You Were – She Didn’t Care

You sold us all out, thinking you were her rescuer, the only one looking for her. And for these years, 154, you’ve waited, sure she was stuck, and aside from seeing mortals play out succinctly, you’ve meditated only on her release and how you’d orchestrate it.

But she was never in there. And she never once returned to tell you that. She could’ve called, written, texted if she knows how, but maybe she doesn’t. Not all technology’s an easy sell when you’re set on something else entirely.

She could look like Madonna now, and I’m never completely sure how Madonna looks now because she evolves quicker than tap water: some days it tastes like chlorine, others bi-carbonate. There’s salt collecting in your teeth dips.


I will creep age, lines cut in my face.

You, in footage from the fifties, have the same haircut.

I ask what you are, like a one word answer is exonerating.

But science lessons are thermometer stunts, work surface smashes.

You taste like mulberry, silt, leather, and Turkish Delight.