If We Survive This

by Racquel Marie

Closure means ending, and I have never known how to swallow one of those without choking.

Familiarity and nostalgia yearn to mask the threats. It’s hard not to fall into routine, but routine is how you die. Getting comfortable is how you die.

Being silent is generally better received than being as loud about my feelings as they are in my head. Plus, it saves me the anxiety of worrying that the second I say something cruel or angry to someone, it’ll end up being the last thing I ever say to them. I refuse to tempt fate like that.

The end is still coming, no matter what.

Of all the things I have to grieve, capitalism will never be one of them.

Are they people? Maybe. Are they trying to kill me, the only thing standing between my brother and death? Yes.

Violence is animalistic, but affection, it seems, can be just as primal.

His breath shudders, eyes still on his lifelines. “I wasn’t built for this world.” I do not say what I have feared for some time: I wasn’t built for anything else.