Crisis.

I never know which day will be your last, When, exactly, your name could become synonymous with tragedy, And so I feel like grabbing your ears with my words and saying I love you at every turn Just in case. But I don’t Because then you would see the fear of my life the great gaining weight of worry, Invisible to the eye— I’m convinced that if they ever do an MRI, the doctors will find “never wanna die” carved into the coils of my brain. I heard, once, that ibuprofen can help relieve symptoms Of an existential crisis. Those of us who thought our way through Sunday school are glad it comes in big bottles. I push questions to the back of my head, but Peter Pan lives inside of me, and he leaps out with the gasps of air I take when I am on my back with the great exhale of wind-knocked-out-of-me, my lungs are empty down to my knees Peter’s been reading my cat scans, because he blurts out, “I DON’T WANNA DIE” before I stuff him back in the closet of my existence, next to my memories of middle school. I am dizzy with the spinning of the world, and if you try to tell me that I am essential to some greater plan, A necessary cog in that mechanized spinning, I’ll slap you with everything I know about chance and choices and chaotic reality. I’m starting to think I should believe in someone’s God, because I might need something to pray to. I don’t claim to have the answers, because the highest grade your god gives is a 95, and it’s all a platonic ideal from there. I’m scared shitless of dying, and anyone who isn’t is lying, or has a prescription regimen of ibuprofen. But me, oh… I’m trying to cut down. On ibuprofen, nail biting, worry, and existentialism altogether. I’ve made some good progress; I’m down to 20 I love you’s a day. But every night I tell you, “I’ll see you tomorrow”, because Peter told me that if I wish it hard enough, you’ll come back to life in the morning.