Death.
The word is pregnant with emotion.

I stare at it.
The shiny blade of the small stainless steel kitchen knife,
I stare at it.
A couple of slashes across my wrist
Will permanently stain the drab carpet
With the molten lava
Pumping through my veins.
Though, will it permanently remove my lonely soul
From this world?

I stare at it.
The bottle of minty green mouthwash,
I stare at it.
It’s perched mockingly on the white bathroom counter.
I calculate its ability to poison me if ingested.
Salty torrents stream down my blotchy cheeks.

My mother,
She weeps. Every day after my grandfather’s death.
I carry on with my chores
In silence.

Death.
Everyone fears death.
Everyone mourns.

However,
I do not.
I’m not afraid
Of death.
It’s not a tragedy;
It’s an escape.

An escape from this corrupted world.