It Won't Come For Me

Created on May 18, 2025

“It won’t come for me,” he said. “It hunts the wicked— I am the one who helps, the pure, the gifted.”

He turned away from horror’s face Was it the ugly he feared to know, or were his dreams too beautiful, too sacred to let go?

A quiet voice cried, “Wake up, while there’s still time. Your faith isn’t worth a dime. You think you’re safe, but you are the prey. You feed the beast by living its way.”

“You preach of beasts and faith,” he said, “but what do you know of wounds that spread? If you’ve not suffered, starved, or bled then keep your warnings. I’ll walk ahead.”

Pride made blind what eyes might see— he missed the voice’s quiet plea, how every word it dared to say was carved from dreams it gave away.

Then came the night that tore his faith to blood, peeled him raw and dragged him through the mud to meet the truth that chilled his breath, the beast that whispered fear and death.

Losing everything, he cried for eyes to see, pleading for hearts to feel but they turned away from the plea, whispering cold, “It won’t come for me.”