Am I The One?

I’ve been hankering against a subtle pressure,

Reaching up walls of my throat, that continue to fill up the pit in my stomach.

A phantom press, squeezing a good day away like a rabbit from the fox.


Maybe I’m just irrational, paranoid by stability.

See, statistically, every grouping of people, also known as mates, as the years go by, seems to always indefinitely feature some sort of tragedy.


Twenty, thirty, forty years together, bonded by the years, crafted by childhood.

A million words, a thousand interactions, a hundred nights out and ten mates.


No one’s died, or permanently maimed, or severely taken by mental health, prison, social banishment, a woman scorned or god forbid, children.

We’re all sailing on, unharmed.


And that makes me nervous, the roulette barrel spins with equal favour.

Like they says, If you don’t know anyone loud or annoying or obnoxious, it’s usually you.


If I haven’t had a car crash, been on tv during a major disaster, had cancer grow somewhere I can’t see , Been sectioned in dramatic fashion, or publicly shamed for my unhinged desires.


Maybe it’s just the anxiety speaking, that ruthless bint. But what if it’s me?, the shadow creeps, precognition to the doom.

I’m I running away from fate, hurdling towards a statistic.


Am I losing my mind, or is it my destiny to take one for the team.

Am I losing my life?, one rapid breath at a time.

Or am I simply,

Am I the one?

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