By Aubriana Niven
When I watched the first 6 seasons of The Walking Dead,
my apocalypse plan was pretty clear.
I’d kill myself at first sign of the end. I’m a pussy. What more do you want from me?
Never climbed a tree.
Never dived head-first into a swimming pool.
Never jumped off boulders into the glistening lake.
Never forgot a helmet.
Never had sex before marriage.
The Walking Dead forgot to mention, though, that the apocalypse doesn’t
start with the knock from decomposing flesh on your front door.
Not really.
It’s the slow and steady killer of yes and I do.
It’s the low, rumbling buzz of electrical circuits filtering through the television,
running Monday night sports. It’s giving up your favorite Thai joint
for their favorite burger place. It’s the
I’ll do the dishes.
And take out the trash.
And wash your laundry.
And be the breadwinner too.
It’s the sound of a whaling toddler peeking behind the shower curtain,
invading your fortress of solitude for however little you have it.
My pussy-plan is thwarted. My careful death wish is undone.
How does one die in the midst of an apocalypse
when you’ve been living it year after year and never known?
Aubriana Niven is a San Diegan poet and proud mama to the cutest little girl. She holds a Bachelors in English Literature from San Diego State University and an Masters in Education. You can find her on Instagram @aubri.niven
