Calendrical Casino

Ten. Ten years, I've been scared, fearing the phone's ring. Twenty. Twenty years, I was, learning how goodbye really felt. Thirty. Thirty years, I reached, forty-four days ago. Forty. Forty, my brother was, for fifty-seven days. That's all he got... and that feels like all for me. I'm terrified, I'll admit. Every knock on the door, every surprise text or call, every "hey" I wasn't expecting. Each corner hides a death, each day a loss on the table, Russian Roulette be damned. The calendar is loaded - play. So don't call me strong. I'm petrified, and I'll face the grief, as I always have, but I won't face you. I'm running, without shame, from contact, from laughter, from making me feel. My response, proudly, is to hide. So call me what you will - save strong. That just reminds me - that I have received no choice. Thirty-three percent. A third of my life - looking over my shoulder. Which do I run out of first - fortitude, or friends? The calendar is loaded... no choice but to play.