Ah, dear sir, you are far, far too virtuous of a human
neither one who is disgusted by humanity seeking its destruction,
nor one who loves humanity and must bend souls to hell.
I should call you an angel who only knows good since birth
while we humans have the misfortune of choice.
But even an angel would screech in pain
if I plucked its feathered wings from the tendon stitched to its back
if I poked and prodded some knitting needles through its humanoid eyes
if I dragged it down to Lucifer’s abode where it cannot escape decay
they are selfish creatures.
You, however are tethered to the ground
in your fortified palace of thoughts, which does not yield nearly as easily.
It rejects the world’s depravity from seeping through its moat
and you—
if it is rotting
with the comforting and familiar smell of flesh
and rats gnawing a path through
my face that I see molten
sliding off, black on the outside
ugly pink on the inside
so be it, engulf this place in lava.
—have betrayed me in the end
because somehow there is a light, a calm, a reassurance
while I am left laughing so hard I’ve forgotten to die.
Lucy Zhang 