Letter To Death

What if you could write a letter to love, death, or time? What would you say?

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My letter to Death.

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To Death,

You probably know who I am. And I know who you are.

Yet, I know not what form you will be when you come and collect me.

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You are a beauty, death.

I have no reason to love something thought bad by sociey, yet I feel like I know you.

Maybe I have a psycho's soul inside a fourteen year old's body?

Death, you took important someones from me.

I never met an uncle of mine, because you took him in the form of a river.

I felt horrible, simply because I saw people around me crying that day as he lay on his death bed. And there was I, who was standing in a corner with a confused expression on my face and no sadness or pain.

I was young. I understood what you are yet I feared you, not.

But as time passed by and I grew older, I sucked in more knowledge about what you brought and what you can do.

I never liked learning.

And this that I will remind you is the lesson I hated the most.

It was my friend's birthday, everything was going fine. I wasn't even planning on going, so I didn't bother dressing up.

That day you took someone from me, I felt numb.

He was weak, his skin wrinkled, his eyes beady, his breathing labored, his lips chapped, and his hair was a combination of white and gray.

It was the last time I talked to him. A few hours after I left his house, my cousin came barging inside our home and told me the news I dreaded the most.

He was dead.

You took him, Death!

The tears poured out my eyes as we both rushed to my Grandfather's house to find my Aunts and Uncles already there by his side.

You are cold.

I only cried that day, and the day his body was finally six feet under.

But I never cried again because I lost him.

Death, am I a psycho?

A day after he was buried, I was feeling slightly better. Two days later, I was back to my moody self.

I moved on. Much quicker than the others. And it felt wrong, so wrong.

I fear you now, Death.

And I fear myself too.

I've experienced what you've brought and what you've done.

And I'm afraid.

Will I be the one bringing you next upon an unlucky person?

Maybe when I grow old enough, you'll come again.

In the form of
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Me.

Yours But Not Yet,
I'm On Your List