god is a drunk girl

SOPHIE CROCKER

arm around me for balance, she slurs

“you’re beautiful, you’re an elf queen, can you help me find the bathroom, i need to kneel down—hah, to pray.”

once there, i keep her aloft over the toilet, gather her hair from her face. her bitsy shoulders heave as she kisses vodka and stomach acid into the bowl, a liquid confetti. on her knees, spine a porcelain curve, her skirt splays around her across black-and-white linoleum. the room smells of peach absolut and bile. once she has emptied herself, she drags her lipstick off with her knuckles and whispers,

“i want you to be happy, are you happy?” we don’t know each other, i remind her.

“still, are you happy?” i tell her it’s hard to say. it’s hard to be. the sun is a carcinogen, heaven is a carcinogen.

she spares me a sip from her flask; she smooches a pink third eye between my brows; she only knows three poets and i haven’t heard their names before. alcohol shouldn’t ask the questions, does. her hair a blackbird flock, her body a metaphor that shifts in the half-light—patron goddess of egypt or heartbreak or lost shoes, of something; some delicate corporeal being must depend on her. how else could she become so detached and bright, a dying galaxy, a filterless menthol, a god— indistinguishable comparisons, indestructible. i bet her cheeks taste of mascara.

“i’m happy tonight” one of us says. she cries until both our lungs hurt.

regulus, north, orion: stars have names and we do not. god is a drunk girl and so am i.