Not Enough is hungry. She keeps her tribe lean, stripped of the sweet nectar of story and praise song that can sustain a soul. She wants her people to believe Dark Times are close at hand – just around the corner, in fact.
A gunman is on the horizon.
The flashing light is your own ambulance.
Don’t step on a crack.
Best to scrimp or even to mindlessly overindulge – a radical acting out that can be reprimanded, guilted over, and brushed aside – than to know you are securely Blessed.
Not Enough does not hold you; she would never caress you.
She prods and scratches, stings and kicks.
Her whispered fear messages fill the night, forcing your heart wide open to that which you cannot have. Out of reach. Too good for you.
Not Enough wears a gown of rags that she stole and begged for.
An apostle of Fear, she chants of dearth and prays to shame.
Grasp, she hisses, work harder. Go to bed with an empty heart so that your empty eyes can close and dream of the bee that enters you, buzzes into your hollow spaces, and creates a maze of thick sadness trapped in a crazy quilt of waxed hallways.
Do not Rest in the Bosom of Joy.