That's the thing about death. It just happens. It's not expected, unless it's under certain circumstances like cancer or AIDS or any other terminal illness. But even the doctors that give you six months to live aren't always precise, and they'll never know the exact day.
But that's just the thing. One minute your lungs are being lungs (even if they're shitty lungs) and then they're not. One minute you're breathing and the next you're not. One minute you're clean of heroin for seven months and the next you're in your bathroom tub with a needle shoved in your lifeless skin.
Could it have always been that simple? You're dancing and laughing and crying, and now you're lying in the ground becoming worm food.
You were here and now you're nowhere.
Could it have always been this simple?
I was here for a moment.
Then I was gone.
— z.s // Excerpt From A Book I'll Never Write #5 // contemplating death, while dying
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Excerpts From A Book I'll Never Write
Poetryex·cerpt noun ˈekˌsərpt/ 1. a short extract from a film, broadcast, or piece of music or writing. • all excerpts are mine unless stated otherwise ranked #427 in poems ranked #10 in excerpts
