Misaligned Courage

He will swallow lightning
from a stranger’s open palm,
no questions asked,
as if danger were a dare
and his pulse a thing to spend.

He knows the back doors
of fluorescent clinics,
the language of checklists,
how to tilt his suffering
until it dispenses tablets
like communion wafers.

He risks his blood pressure,
his sleep,
the thin bright thread
that keeps tomorrow tethered,
all for a counterfeit sunrise
that burns out by afternoon.

But love?
Love is a cliff with witnesses.
Love requires hands unclenched.
It requires staying
after the high is gone.
It requires being seen
in ordinary daylight.

So he plays Russian roulette
with chemistry instead,
a quieter gun, a slower bullet,
one that applauds him
for calling it treatment.

He will dance with overdose,
flirt with the teeth of the night,
walk home alone through streets
that do not remember his name,
yet trembles
at the idea of knocking
on a door that might open.

Because happiness does not numb.
Because joy cannot be blamed.
Because a life well lived
offers no alibi when it breaks.

If courage were pointed true,
he would be unstoppable,
a storm choosing gardens
instead of empty seas.

Instead he wagers everything
on losses he can survive,
keeps his catastrophes small
and repeatable,
a private ritual
of almost ruin.

Oh |@!?#%***,
reckless in the ways
that leave you untouched,
careful in the only place
that could set you free.

You would drink poison
without hesitation
if someone called it medicine,

but the simple, lethal act
of loving and being loved
remains the one risk
you refuse to take.