Every August I grow scared again.
I fear the end and the unknown.
I fear what we are allowed to know and don’t know.
But by October I will have settled again.
The scramble in my stomach will have calmed,
And my heart will stop fluttering at the simple truth that we will die.
But until then August will grip my chest,
It will place in my head sweet roses with sharp thorned thoughts and vines that twist around and strangle me, suck the air from my lungs and steal the sunlight from my skin.
I don’t want to leave here.
I don’t want to have to say goodbye to the passing of time.
Is it better to have experienced a consciousness or to have gone on in sweet nonexistence, never experiencing the sweet tartness of fresh strawberries on your lips or the swell in your chest that another person can place so gently there?
At the end of the day, doesn’t it all get taken away anyway?