there is the gun
the trigger finger itching and
you aren’t ready to be the reason your mother dies at forty-one,
and you’re scared that there’s nothing above, below, or in between here and
the place your eyes can’t see.
you’re afraid of judgement
and being a blood stain on the carpet;
the gap in the middle of the classroom (where the good kids sit – sat)
and that –
you’re so afraid of being past tense and a lost tooth and the loose thread in your family’s history.
you’re petrified to the core of dying.
believe this – It knows.
It won’t take you because It knows better than to grant wishes to people who don’t know what they’re even asking for
and when you’re old and satisfied –
It’ll snap your soul in two and carry what’s left to the place you tasted in another life, in some faded, fragrant dream.
believe this –
you are a story worth reading to its end . do not tear out your final pages.
– t. bennett