05.01.22
21:12
The first time Death approached me was several years ago. She was wearing jeans and a striped hoodie, with a wry smile and a twinkle in her eye. Not what I expected. No shroud, no sickle, just a quick wit and hands that decayed everything they touched. She never touched me though. Said I was special and that I deserved better.
The next time Death came calling, I was staring at a bottle of pills that would surely kill me faster than her cold hands ever could. But she reminded me again that I deserved better, and they weren't mine to take. I think she loved me, in her way. I handed her the bottle and our fingers almost touched. I'm pretty sure a little of her poison soaked into me from that brief encounter, because I've felt a slow decay seeping through my body ever since she left. I think I loved her, too.
I don't answer the door for Death anymore. I sit and I wait for Life to come knocking, but she never does. She left me the moment I befriended her counterpart, and I'm too tired to go looking for her. I guess I'll just rest here for a while longer. Just a little while.
YOU ARE READING
words don't come that easy.
PoetryI've tried. but i've always failed to contain these thousand words in a few sentences, maybe im bad at expressing macro feelings in the few words that I'm limited to. you might think you know me enough because it's been a long time since i first wav...
