not the end

sometimes,
when my soul aches
and bleeds a flow
thicker & heavier than I think
my small body can take,
i am certain that i will die.
or if i don't,
that i want to die.

these moments are real.
they are gethsemane.
they are my test.

will i succumb to the cowardice flight of death?
or will i piously pretend i don't desire it?
or
will i breathe,
look intently into the trembling, tear-soaked eyes
in the mirror,
invite & bless the flow
as though it is the holy blood of Christ
and
know that this is not the end.

it is real and
present and
infuriatingly painful.

but it is not the end.

soon,
all shall be well.
all shall be well.
all manner of thing shall be well.