I Must Be A Saint

I Must Be A Saint prose poem

Photo by TheoJunior

Today, a man tried to kill me.
He was arrested.

The policeman already filled out a file.
All he needed was my OK.

I was OK. But I had nothing to complain.
I was not even mad.

Then they let him go.
My aggressor worshipped me.

My aggressor bent his body in front of me,
face down, everybody looking. A proper thank you prayer.

I could not be mad at him for trying to kill me.
My life did not flash before my eyes so he did not see my soul.

You could do it right here, right now. I would not be
mad at you. I’ll hold still, just make it quick.

But I live. Absurd as it is, I live.
And I have nothing else to do, no victory to seek, nothing.

I am not a believer. Yet I live. I could lay down
waiting to die, yet I live. Nothing else to do.

But if I had cancer, I would fight it.
If the plane crashes with me inside, I scream.

Not for help. For not understanding why
that dormant feeling of caring kicks in like a sniff of cocaine.

Somehow, my aggressor was not my enemy,
but cancer would be. Because I’ll say I have a chance.

Actually, I live just to avoid shame, everybody tells me
it is stupid to die for no reason at all. And people still die in wars.

I could help you. But I won’t. No reason at all.
Kill me if you have to. I won’t miss me.

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