God's a woman. Who would've thought, Death is too?
I could hold that petty female by her throat and shove her down a river, she would fly like a breadstick in a food fight screaming and screaming how cruel is Heather?
I could lacerate her appendix and not care a bit, she doesn't need it anyway, she's a ravenous carnivore for humans. She makes a meal out of frozen ants and tar, and she'll sneer at you all the while she eats. Sometimes I think she's gone quite mad, she'll let the foxes prosper and the poor sheep decompose, death deserves to suffer, she's a mean old lady whose fury can destroy us all.
I could scratch at her bare skin and not feel guilt. Her crimped light brown paper-like skin could waste away for all I care. Death is a ragged doll pretending to be the saviour of an 8-year old's dollhouse. She's filled with greedy globules, maddeningly tragic, and with a crazy appetite for human grief. She feeds on it, that little cow, that's why she takes away our kind, to see us mourn and sin. Our sorrow unhurriedly soothes through her, like an elixir.
Death's an atrocious little woman, whose lullabies puts us all to sleep, her dark magenta eyes roam over her buffet, feeling for her next prey, that mean old lady never learns.
But oh, I don't fear her, she's a meatball stuck in my cream soup, which I can gladly crush with a spanner and chug down the trash chute, I won't even let her silhouette remain. I'll make sure she pays with her blood river. She'd be screaming and screaming
how cruel is Heather.
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