The number of 25 to 35-year-olds dying with alcohol-related liver disease tripled between 1999 and 2016. I hope this comes as a shock, but the three boxes of Franzia in my pantry beg to ask why you would be in the first place.
Cut to leaving. I am a firefly in the dark room of your house, a hopeful piece of light for you and we stay hopeful that my imprint on you lasts longer than the urge to buzz myself into the porch light. We hope I don’t fall through the cement cracks, my burnt body disappearing into a hiding place you can’t ever squint your eyes enough to find. We are for each other as much as we’ll ever be; we’re holding on to every moment like it’s the last drop of IV fluid.
Loki, Prince of Asgard, sits on the edge of the western palace balcony rail. He looks towards the rivers that flow through the city, enveloping every glistening building and flowing around every walkway in the valleys that lie beyond his vision. The sun was setting in beautiful Asgard, the same sun that sets for the planet Earth, a planet in a different realm than this one. Clouds were in the sky and carbon dioxide helped to fuel luscious trees near the harbor—how similar we are to Earth, Loki thought, but how pathetic it is that those who lived on Earth could not make their own land look as marvelous as this scene, how they could not simply make gold and silver sky scrapers that touched the edge of the ozone layer? Loki had not been to Earth, but he had seen photos of this sharp contrast. Must be the people themselves, he thought, perhaps they have a stupid leader. Or, maybe the people are just that daft. Loki, turning 16 years old the next day, had already been developing a keen sense of the need to question things around him and establishing a reputation for saying things boldly about a variety of topics, such as Asgard, other realms, life, and his life specifically. He was also channeling what he thought into doing bold things.
I use the wet mud on the rocks as paint to draw my wishes.
“Time takes time, you know.” – Ben Folds