This time would be different.
This time it would be brief.
He would do It.
He promised himself he would.
There would be no mistake of his intentions this time.
For years he had hidden in the shadows of the
metaphorical back row, waiting.
Waiting for a chance to do It.

It.
That terrible It.
It haunted him.
It taunted him.
It kept him up at night.
It filled his mind when it tried to rest.
It consumed him totally,
leaving nothing for him to salvage.

It.
It was a something that all others had done,
at this point he didn’t care who helped him do It.
He just needed to get It over with.
Finished. Checked off.

It.
That terrible It.
The terrible It that hung on the lips
of every girl he saw.
the terrible It that yanked at
the corners of each jaw
turning soft lips into impish grins
where dimples would appear on
previously smooth cheeks.
It.
That terrible It that danced behind the eyes
circled in black lashes
with which he longed to waltz.
That terrible It that created
the empty pit in his stomach
that seemed to never be filled.
It.
That terrible It that evaded him,
that made him inadequate.
It created a shallow pool of want
Situated in his chest;
when that terrible It could make the pool
into an ocean, lapping at the shores of what It could create.
Could It create that thing that some claimed to have?
That thing that took years or seconds to mature.
That thing that would fill the pit in his stomach
If only he had It.
It.
That terrible It.
The It he wanted.
The It he needed.

It.
It began with the end sound of a crack
And finished with a hiss.
He supposed It was actually like that.
Hard.
Then soft.
Shocking.
Then serene.
It was a double extreme
Created by It.
But to get those extremes, one had to do It.

It.
That terrible It that drove him insane
With longing and lust
That terrible It that filled his mind’s eye with thoughts of It
Scenes of It.
The wonder of what It felt like.

It.
Of what It meant.
Of what It could do.
Of what It did to get all the kids bent
out of shape
because of what It did to them

It.
It changed people,
For better.
For worse.
These things were sealed with It.
Like a wax drop on a letter,
pressed with the crest of each curve
Of the things that did It.