As a patient of life’s bullshit, and other illnesses of the sort, I have one sole fear, and that being death. My actions are framed in a manner as if they’re trying to form a barrier around the concept of death itself.
What is death? I don’t know. To me, it’s something grand, it’s something living, it’s something prolonging that will take you afar, to me it’s an entity that dangerously lurks over you, around you, in you, waiting to tear your skin apart and emerge as an attack of grief on those who love you. Death is living and to me death haunts me at night, as it does to anyone who’s scared of it. So I wrote this thing, I don’t know what you call it, to remind me and everyone who fears death, that tonight, death isn’t coming for you. Tonight you’re safe.
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There is no death slowly tracing its way across your back. It’s little feet do not tap your skin. It’s not crawling across the valley of your shoulders, nor is it climbing, up, up, farther along your spine, it cold spindly legs, tapping.
No sort of death carefully digs through your hair towards the nape of your neck. It does not pick its way, barely touching scalp. It does not make you beg for thread through your curls, to stitch up it’s long-lasting hole, as it goes, marking its path, remembering and making sure other’s do too.
It is not inching closer to your mandible, because it is not there at all.
It is not interlacing it’s foggy fingers with yours, it is not toying with your dreams, to anticipate it’s frightful occurance.
There is no death.
No death warms your unshod feet, no death reaches from inside your heels to take with it what is his, your soul. It does not linger at your achilles. No death climbs up your feet and into your pant ending leg.
Death is not on the backs of your hands. Not in the crook of your elbow. It does not wait in the folds of your shirt, in the places that do not touch your skin, but will, once you move.
It does not nestle snugly in the valley of your curves
Death does not scamper in between your half-open lips. It does not hoist itself over your teeth and slide on your tounge to your throat to grab a hold of your lasting life.
This is no reaper in your throat.
Yes; that is wind blowing from trees and onto your temple and running down your cheeks. That is not death. And that, that is sweat beading on your shoulderblades and sliding over your body, not hundreds of thousands of infinitesimally spread of limbs of death . No deathspawn is making you a home or claiming you as it’s own.
There is no death in your cabinet, a peeping Tom, waiting to make its move, nor on the bedside table into which you are reaching your hand. There is no death in your pocket. There is no death in the glass you drank from, the blanket, the pillow. There is no death in the darkened rooms, in the corners you cannot see.
No death climbs up your showerhead sowing a net to grab you from.
There is no death making its way carefully along the helix of your ear. It is not using your earlobe as a foothold to fold itself small to fit into your ear canal. It is not wedging its way in through the small spaces, to your brain, and sinking its tiny soul sucking straws into the soft tissue of your cortex.
Death is not thinking about you.
Go to bed safely tonight, as there is no death between your sheets and your comforter, bodies crunching together as you wrap yourself in so much fabric, softer than you remember, too, and silkier. The irregular softness and the silk are things you have imagined. So, too, is the sensation of many reaping legs, pricking at your flesh. You may sleep easy, because death is not wedged in the foldings of your pillows, waiting to burrow out. Its not waiting. Its not there.
And if you think you hear snickering of the reaper, clicking in the night as you try to sleep, it is not the sound of the angel of death. It is something else, or it is nothing at all.
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