writing about Death without being
unoriginal
and depressing is
hard. for

 

starters, He is surely more written
about than any
other topic of
conversation besides Love – except
when they decide to
get together, my,
what an overplayed idea. and

 

secondly, while i could take a more
satire route with
this, a quick wit won’t
heal the empty feeling inside my
stomach. “empty” like
atoms; there’s a lot
of space between the incoherent
fears that have drilled their
way out of my skull
and splashed into my stomach, so you
see, the word “empty”
is misleading. (some
others have slid their way out of my
head and down my arms
and legs, panicking
and wiggling beneath my skin like
kids suffocating
under a blanket,
the only way to free them is by
taking a knife and –)

 

…

 

*clears throat* well,
that’s one way to
get into it.

 

the older
you get, the more
you get to know the
flesh that guards your Heart and
Brain and other organs no
one cares as much about. and you

 

realize
either your great
potential or great
fragility or both
if you’re lucky. because you

 

can change the world,
but it can change you.
can cure cancer,
but are not immune.
god, a sinus
infection could be
the end of you
for all you know. have

 

you ever thought
about all the things
you’ll never get
around to knowing?
no matter the amount
of books you read in your life,
there will undeniably be
the one you didn’t have enough time
to take off the shelf that might have been the
explanation for what the hell you’re doing
here with all of your existing in the first place.

 

you may be brave, should be brave,
we need more like you.
but don’t convince yourself for
a fraction of a
moment that you are
indestructible.

 

you’re destructible.

 

i’m destructible.

 

let’s hide under blankets instead
of skin… because as much as i
wish i could end these stanzas on
a less hopeless note, all i want
is to be convinced, even for
a fraction of a fraction of

that don’t-convince-yourself moment,

that i am safe.