Monday, November 7, 2016


His chortle is ice, his touch a frost. 
My arms pinned back in claws, he teases me- mirthless,
Hissing sweet nothings in my ear- 
“You’re useless, unloved. Tainted…
“You will never mean something to someone.”
I’m cold, but numbness won’t arrive to relieve me- each whisper a raw stab.
He makes me think I deserve it, his weight crushing as he leans over me. 

Life is heavy. 

He’ll give me beautiful creations, encase me in warmth, and
pull the floor away from under me. 

He’ll condemn me, abuse me, smile at me tomorrow. 
Everything is fine. 

He’ll hold my hand, kiss my forehead and he’ll feel soft, glowing. 
His smile will melt away like candle wax, dripping over my body, and 
His nails will harden into knives. 

I’ll ask him why he introduced himself to me, if only to torture my heart. 
He’ll cup my chin in his frozen fingers and smile against my lips. 

“Because you are my plaything. 
I will toy with you, love you, rip you apart and 
threaten to destroy you.”

He’ll look at me with eyes full of galaxies, and 
I’ll see black holes, threatening to consume me. 

“But only you can decide when you’re broken.” 


His breath is silken over my skin, his touch an eternal promise. 
He knows games too, but he’ll make me tempted to play along. 
He is the most familiar stranger I have ever known, and he’s as
light as a thought crossing the corner of my mind. 

Death flirts with me sometimes. 

While Life throws me against the walls of sanity, threatening to break them down, 
Death eases into my room, and leaves the door open. 
Life takes away the pillars that have held me up, and I crumble-
Death offers me his hand, and winks. 

“Come with me, and you will never be hurt again.” His voice is a memory, like
nursery rhymes crooned into a body still growing accustomed 
to a soul far older than its vessel. 

And I’ll ask him how I am meant to grow, without pain. He’ll laugh, and 
I’ll hear more than one voice in the echoes of his endless body. 
“Growth is unnecessary, for the dead stay young forever."


“You will be the worst decision someone will ever make.” 
Life will say, just to spite me. 
I am his plaything, and he throws his javelin. 
“It’s such a burden to bear. Why not dance with Death awhile?’ 
He’ll ask, innocent, wide eyed. 

Death stands there in the corner of my room, staring at me. 
His hand still outstretched, the door still open. 
What would happen if I closed it, and locked us in? 
Would I feel safer? Or more threatened than ever?

I’ve alway been the most dangerous thing to happen to myself. 

I regard Death, his stolid build, his soft-looking hands, lean fingers. 
I would like to hold hands with Death, just to make Life jealous.
But Life is so vibrant, his demeanour mysterious and unpredictable, 
his open arms offering me a million possibilities, 
while Death offers me a single infinity.  

They really are beautiful. 

If I am doomed to be someone’s worst decision, then
I’m also fated to be someone’s best.  

I regard Life with a grin so wide my cheeks hurt- put my fists up. 
He raises an eyebrow, and Death smiles. 
I throw my arm forward, and strike Life in the face; he stumbles, shocked. 
And he laughs. 

I’ve decided to stay with him awhile. 

Because I’ve grown to love the feeling of butterscotch sunlight through chill windows and
high pitched bells of laughter that catches in throats, heads thrown back, eyes squeezed shut.
Surprise bursts of wind and crashing ocean waves remind me how Alive the world is, 
how Alive I am.  


Only the dead stay young forever.
Only the dead stay young forever, but 
I’m young now, and I’m still alive. 

I’d like to grow old with Life. 
We’ll bicker and laugh, 
hold each other close and do our best
to kill each other. 

His touch is cold but it burns me
and I use the fire to fuel my determination. 
He wants me to drop into the holes he’s dug around me-
I won’t let him see me fall. 

I still think about holding hands with Death sometimes- 
he had beautiful hands. 


Life's knives tore away at my flesh until the dense redness blurred my vision
and I saw a warped version of reality. 
He led me down various paths and showed me horrors that
forced me to put my fists up, and fight. He laughs. 
“You look stronger.” He’ll say. 

Every blow he dealt me made my bones harder,
every scar he has left on my skin a reminder I am 
chipped, torn, weathered and damaged, 
but I am far from broken. 

Life has eyes full of galaxies, and
I see black holes. But I also see
shooting stars, nebulas and a universe, 

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