You ever think about the kindest thing you almost did?

I do.

More often than I should.

It lingers—like a shadow of grace I never gave.

And I wonder…

Is my fear of insomnia stronger than my fear of what woke me?

Because sometimes, it’s not the sleeplessness that haunts me.

It’s the reason I woke up in the first place.

Are bonsai trees cruel?

To shape something so alive into something so small—

Is that art, or is it control?

Do I love what I love…

Or just the feeling it gives me?

Is it the thing, or the echo?

When I reach back into my earliest memories,

Do I see through my young eyes,

Or do I just watch that small version of me from a distance,

Like a ghost haunting my own past?

And which feels worse—

Knowing there are people who do more with less talent,

Or knowing there are people with more talent than I’ll ever touch?

I walk on moving walkways.

But I still feel like I’m standing still.

Should it make a difference

That I knew it was wrong as I was doing it?

Does guilt count if it arrives on time?

Would I trade actual intelligence

For the perception of being smarter?

Would I let go of truth for applause?

Why does it bother me

When someone at the next table is talking on a cell phone?

Is it the intrusion…

Or the reminder that I’m not part of their world?

How many years of my life

Would I trade for the greatest month of my life?

And would I regret it when the month ends?

What would I tell my father,

If I could?

Would I ask for forgiveness, or offer it?

Which is changing faster—my body, or my mind?

And which will betray me first?

Is it cruel to tell an old person his prognosis?

Or is it cruel not to?

Am I angry at my phone?

Not really.

But sometimes I think it knows too much about me.

When I pass a storefront,

Do I look inside,

Look at my reflection,

Or just keep walking?

Is there anything I would die for

If no one could ever know I died for it?

Would the act still matter?

If I were assured that money wouldn’t make me even a little happier,

Would I still want more of it?

Would I still chase it?

What has been irrevocably spoiled for me?

And can I ever unspoil it?

If my deepest secret became public,

Would I be forgiven?

Or would I be remembered for that alone?

Is my best friend also my kindest friend?

And if not…

Why not?

Is it cruel to give a dog a name?

To bind it to us with a word?

Is there anything I feel a need to confess?

Yes.

But I don’t know to whom.

I know it’s a murder of crows.

A wake of buzzards.

But what is it again for ravens?

Ah yes—

An unkindness.

And somehow,

That feels right.

What is it about death that I’m afraid of?

The ending?

Or the forgetting?

©️ Beatriz Esmer