Someone always wins,
In this game of numbers and probability,
In this dice roll,
But not always a prize.
Each of us weighted,
Just off center,
Imperceptible in the hand,
Towards one side or another.
One in a million,
One in ten thousand
One in a thousand,
But still one.
Someone, won,
Hands outstretched to receive their prize,
Tragedy and suffering,
Congratulations.
Not me, not me, not me,
You convince yourself,
Even knowing,
You are also,
Someone.
About the Creator
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making space
Since the only thing that might pull us back up is caring, it only makes sense that here, long after I’ve let my anger born of heartbreak and grief misplace, multiply, misdirect itself, let the enormity of my solitude turn into something I don’t know how to dispute with, something thick and heavy and suffocating, let the coldness thrash and fight under my skin, deeper still, in between the arches of my organs; here where the ground is always close and the fall is easy and I surrender to it often, lie without purpose for hours, it only makes sense that it is here, I decide to show up and surrender to the possibilities of the night. Show up to those who I deserted. Drawn to the sense of accomplishment, something I haven’t felt in a while, to memory of finished dish sending its aroma into the world and with it, wrapping the room with a strong sense of sweet nostalgia, I get up and decide to cook. I pick up my phone, type a message that reads “Dinner at mine @ 8PM, don’t bring anything” and before my courage deserts me again, drop it in our friends’ group chat, the way one would do when diffusing a bomb in the movies: one eye closed, snip at the wire, hoping for the best.
By Mesh Toraskarabout 16 hours ago in Feast
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