I assume the worst
out of every occasion.
It is only my nature
to imagine
horrifying reactions
for every action.
Every minute late
is a minute’s worth
of faulty brakes
and stray bullets.

I am not a cynic,
I am merely a writer.
Now I understand
why most of the great
authors of our time
were miserable alcoholics.
Otherwise they would have
blown their brains out
long before they finished
a single story.

I do not ever want a child
to worry over at night,
I do not want to account
for every bruise and scratch.
I can only pray
I never become attached
to my immediate family.
I do not want a lover
to think about
when she’s gone.
It’s impossible to be
together forever,
so let’s not be together
at all.

Fingers crossed,
I will roam alone
until my time is finally
withdrawn.

And with any amount of luck,
it will be before
any of you.