The Relationship I Have with Death

Like flies dropping, the rain plummeting, and the night descending upon the day, hearts are ripped from chests and bodies shoved into caskets. Shut it and drop it into the earth. Bury it with mud and place a marker with the owner’s name. Let the corpses rot throughout decades and their skeleton a home for insects by a century. Forget, don’t forgive. Death is life. And there’s too many to count.

Families grow generation after generation with memorable members, innocent and wicked, intelligent and idiotic. Smiles shared within images of spontaneous get-togethers, holidays�"happy holidays!�"and for large milestones. Family is love, but it’s sprinkled with hate. And there are those members that are easily forgotten until the Reaper has whispered that date.

Death is the one that brings families whole. Death is, also, the one that can vanquish them.

The relationship I have with Death is a love/hate heartbreak. He gives me so much and takes it all away. Snatches it from my hands and banishes me from happiness. The love I have is indescribable. He has, yet, taken away the ones I loathe and rather the ones I worship. He’s the Reaper that I visualize within my dreams, who’s glistening and lifeless eyes replicate my face. He does no harm; he only embraces me in his stiff and cold arms. There’s no emotion he would share with me as I sit upon my knees before his feet, my head bowed.

He has done me all wrong, but I love him.