Gag Order

God, sometimes I wish I were cruel.

Not forever—just a moment.

Just long enough.

A moment unhooked from consequence,

from the slow orbit of care—

where the grief of others

would not anchor my hands.

A moment to be unburdened.

To reach down,

wrap my fingers around sorrow’s throat,

and wrench it from the hollow it gnaws.

I would not whisper.

I would not cradle.

I would not ask permission to hurt.

I would heave that thing—

that aching thing—

into the street

where it might rot

and leave me to peace.

I would point and say:

There.

There it is.

That is the thing.

I have carried it farther than love requires,

longer than anyone noticed.

And I am done.

Do you hear me?

It is mine no longer.

Let someone else shoulder the phantom—

let them dress it in meaning

and weep at its feet.

I will not.

I am through.

It is not mine.

If someone must—

then let them take it.

Let them call it theirs.

Why should I care?

I imagine it.

Every day, I imagine it.

I taste it in my teeth,

feel my tongue work around it—

the violence I never choose.

And that’s what saves me—

Isn’t it?

Because I am not cruel?

Yet that’s what damns me?

No,

I am not cruel.

But, God, sometimes I wish that I were.