A rented disco ball, like the earth on fire,

swallows us whole, and our tallest shoes.

The devil is in the details but also in a tank top,

with her muscles out, hair down to her flaming waist.

The flowers on the kitchen counter start to smell

the way fruit tastes; the night is fermenting.

For a month in secondary school I believed in God, but

maybe I just wanted someone’s eyes on me

so I flex on my ex and pray instead

for that divine intervention,

her pupils dilating in their cat-eye apexes

because I only exist for her at 90 degree angles,

in the corners of other things.

People pour into each other, waiting

for the blunted ache of reinventing ourselves

to slowly eviscerate, vampiric in the daylight,

leaving us on fire, like ice cubes forgotten

on a hardwood floor. We watch

the sunrise and eat birthday candles for breakfast,

pouring libations into toilet bowls for our various lovers.

I am always the first

to text their someone an I’m sorry for last night

so that everyone will come together once more,

to dance and resurrect, cry delicious tears all over again

in front of a different kitchen’s forgettable backsplash.

We light the last few cloves– the only known cure

for a morning heartache– still eager

for the future to take off its clothes

and eat us up again.