A while back
I posted a dream.
A car accident.
Today
I almost surprised myself.
I didn’t get in one.

The whole **** world
Decided to be against me.
Just me.
Just for a couple hours.
You know what?
That *****.
Especially when you struggle
When the world isn’t against you.

But I’m not dead.
Yet.
I don’t know
If that’s good or bad.

But I know I’m worse.

I don’t know if that’s right.
Harsh; insensitive; hardened.
But that isn’t the whole story.

I wonder if hollow is better.
Not really.
Because I’m not really empty.
There’s still a constant pain.

Hurt doesn’t work either.
There’s nothing wrong with me.
At least that people can see.
And I’m not hurt.
I’m just hurting.

But I don’t think it’s depression.
Depression is sadness.
Not hardening and hurting.
It might be empty.

So what am I?
Does such a word exist?

Maybe it’s lost.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never go home again.
My room will sit unused,
A capsule frozen in time,
A snapshot of how I was.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my dog again.
She will sit at the front door
Waiting for me and wondering,
Why I never came home.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never graduate from high school.
My yearbooks will sit stacked
Stopped short of their goal,
Missing years that should have been.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my mom again.
She will sit distraught,
Planning a funeral
For a child taken from her.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my friends again.
They'll sit together, missing me.
One empty seat among them,
A constant reminder of their loss.

If I die in a school shooting
I'll never see my little sister again.
She will sit through high school
Knowing I can't guide her through,
That she has to figure it out alone.

If I die in a school shooting
My school will be stained.
Pools of students lives will sit,
Blood tattoos on the brick structures,
Marks of death ground into it.

If I die in a school shooting
Everyone will wear black.
They'll send their thoughts and prayers
To a town marred by death,
Forever to be the home of a shooting.

If I die in a school shooting
Will the world change?
Or will I become one of hundreds  
Of kids who have to die?
What will it take?

If things continue this way
Children will have to live in fear.
They'll look over their shoulders
Always worried and wondering,
If they'll die in a school shooting.

Ink scrawled on a torn scrap of paper incensed with dire intent and the stink of fear,
to scented stationary with loopy handwriting and 'I's dotted with hearts.
There is no real comparison, is there?
But each is a letter to those the writer cares about,
informing them of
a milestone decision.
Each letter is a turning point
that cannot be taken back,
symbolism of an end
and a new beginning.
Whichever way you look at it,
each paper, lined with letters,
is a flirt, with endings or otherwise.
Really, how different is death to love?
Are they really so dissimilar?

h.f.m.