when the world ended

when the world ended we just turned off our phones and went to bed.

sitting quietly against the headboard i waited for sirens that never came. the emergencies were only my head. the shallow breathing was a ritual, a way to remember how everything was just below the surface waiting for a chance at redemption.

my only family the kids were sleeping without a care in the world. was that as it should be?

bare feet touched the floor and the sound of wanting to be silent led me in a circle. how had i managed to be so sheltered from the notifications that had numbed their resolve?

i lit a candle and thought about saying a prayer. what was there to say that the world hadn’t already shouted? what was there to ask that the world hadn’t already begged for?

tears filled with sludge rolled down my face. it was a mix of hopelessness, shame, and despair. hopelessness for change. shame for want and despair for whatever number of breaths i remained responsible to take.

why am i still here when the world isn’t?