Bomb

I bomb 

The first day of class. I bomb the conference 

Room and feel strange leaving. 

I bomb the first edition of The Analects, I explode

Confucius in his fat head like in TV. I bomb my safety deposit box and 

Gas my intellectual property. And I catch

Fire at the podium so it disintegrates when I leave. 

Sue me if I incinerate the bed with your body still in it. Sorry I 

Bombed your birthday. Swallowed the card on my way out. 

I want to be so important it leaves birth defects.

(I bomb before conception, 

I bomb so hard it leaves a scar).

I bomb so hard the word “terrorism” loses all meaning. 

I bomb undetected and with my eyes closed.

About the Author

Molly Jones is a writer of speculative fiction from Northeastern Pennsylvania aiming to broaden the spectrum of proletariat literature. You can find her at the deepest, darkest corner of your local library, or in between the pages of Quiddity.