Outside, Kīlauea glows. The Goddess of Volcanoes is sitting at my breakfast table, drinking coffee as she makes the world burn.
I say: “I hate my life. Take it.” I rip at my shirt collar, thrust my naked breasts forward.
Pele blinks. She is so, so beautiful.
Anxiety mounts and I wonder: did I come on too strongly, too like a beggar? A murderer’s least satisfying victim is the one that wants to die, after all.
Pele sits up and kisses me. Her tongue, velvet lava, melts everything away.