I'm not really all that mysterious

We're All Dying, Really

I know the rustling sound that Death makes as she wends her way to the bedside
the way the breath catches, the heart rate slows
measured by beeps, punctuated by alarms
it was all inevitable in the end
too weary for tears
that dull gnawing ache thrumming through your nerves
though close you lay with Death, so close you could touch
you know you’re still alive, so very much alive

I imagine she will come to me one early morning ere the dawn or perhaps after the sun slides down below the horizon, one last glimmer, one last sparkle, then the eternal night

In these days of joy, I think back and cannot remember, even in those dark days of despairing intoxication, vomiting ichor and bile
I never thought I would die, at least not right then Although I knew that each binge would draw me closer to the abyss, inch by inch the heartbeat racing, the head stuffed with cotton and caught in a vise

Hoping that death would catch me unawares, perhaps to fall into oblivion and not wake up, or perhaps to meet death in a blink of an eye as metal crumples and glass shatters

In those moments of not enough sleep, not enough affection, not enough company, feeling bone tired and weary and achy and feverish can’t even get up out of bed that’s how I thought I would die, by slow measures, breath by breath, hyperaware of every passing second, yet helpless as life ebbs out of me

Or imagining crushing chest pain slamming me to the ground, too excruciating to even scream for help, leaving me there, waiting for help that will never come, at least not in time

The last time I truly thought I would die was when I swallowed two bottles of deep despair, no hope for the future, and I felt the presence between the spaces the mind in the interstices I was joyful but I was sent back to what purpose I have yet to discern

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