Death, in all aspects, is gentle.

He'll tell you otherwise, but he is, much to his dismay. Sometimes he's quick, other times he fades into the picture.

Yes, Death is a he.

He came to me in August, standing tall in some dark glow. He introduced himself. I laughed. Hard. Then I coughed. Hard. I told him it was a cold. He told me it was cancer. It was, I knew that. But I didn't want to tell a man who claimed to be Death I was dying. But I was, and he knew.

My brother wanted to punch him. Not that he could, Death was gentle but he would strike a raging fifteen-year-old if he had it. I didn't tell my brother I had a golfball-sized tumor slowly killing me. I didn't tell him I was going to end up like dad. I knew he was going to find out at some point. I just didn't think to expect that point would be a male personification of Death.

I couldn't question it, I was too tired to. All I cared about was the fact that I was dying and that Death was waiting for me, literally. I can't tell you what made me so special, why he came up to my doorstep to wait for my eventual demise. Maybe he was tired too. That's when I realized Death and dying people have something in common; they wait, a lot.

So we waited, I wondered if people were still dying no that he was technically on some type of vacation. He said they were, but now he wasn't there to hold them when they did die. I didn't question that either. We played checkers a lot, he preferred the red checkers, and he always complained about how I was too good at checkers. I started to love him.

My timing skills aren't as good as my checker skills.

My tumor grew, my talent at checkers withered away, and our time did as well. My brother grew angrier, Death grew more confused. He felt things, human things. He couldn't explain it. To this day I believe it was love. But maybe it was just gas.

I wanted to go back to the beginning. When my tumor was just a golfball and there was more time to be thrown away. Death scoffed at that. He said he'll never understand the human infatuation with the beginning. How we latch onto something that holds everything that's gone like it's still there. It made sense. Death was the end.

I can't tell you the rest, because I don't know where it stops. I'm gone, my body withers in the ground, but I don't know where I am. I know it's not with him. But I'm letting go.

Death will say he's reckless. That he's an angry soul, much like my brother. Sometimes i can still hear the echos of his endless monologues about how he'll have to hold me and I'll fade away into whatever comes after him. He could never understand when humans find it so hard to let go. But now he knows.

And unlike me, you lively souls, he can't seem to let go.

Cosmic lover,

You fell from feeble stars

in a gorgeous blaze.

You begged to break the

darkened sky above us.

So I let you.

I saw my clouds crumble.

You sneaked up on me

to pull my rage from my skin.

You begged to apologize,

Your blaze burning my soul.

So I let you.

I can't move. It's too quiet.

There are eyes, big ones. There in the corner, by the door.

It's so dark.

It's not doing anything. It's not moving.

I can't move. I can't breathe.

Is it even human? Humans don't do this.

Why isn't it doing anything? It's just standing. Watching. Watching me.

I need noise. I need to scream. Maybe it'll do something if I do.

I can't scream, I can't even cry. My chest hurts. I can't breathe.

Do something. Anything. Please.

Hurt me, tear me apart. Just stop watching me, please.

Let me die.

Its eyes don't even blink. It's like they're stuck there. It's coming closer.

Don't come closer.

Its silhouette is so dark. It's coming closer. I don't even hear it's footsteps.

Its eyes are in front of mines. They're staring.

That thing is not even breathing.

God, please. Let this thing kill me already.

Please stop watching.

I can't breathe. I can't close my eyes. I can't do anything.

All I can do is stare.

All I can do is watch.

I watch.

Everybody looks at pictures. Erotic pictures. I do.

I shouldn't be ashamed, no one should. They're just photos.

It's funny, really. For people to be so ashamed of their needs, their natural needs. Many say we're commiting sins if we do. The ones with overpriced crosses around their skinny little necks tell us that we can't be sin free if we act our on urges. We can't ever see the light of God if we look at a tit or two. But everyone does. Why would God give us those urges if he never wanted us to act on them?

Shame is such an odd thing. The feeling of it just sits in your stomach. It makes your face red, it makes you feel like you're a guilty man. I'm not a guilty man.

I've haved my pleasures. Not common ones, I suppose. I've been told its wrong my whole life, to act out a sexual pleasure alone. Hell, I believed it. Not anymore, of course. I'm like everyone else. I go to work, come home to my family, and I look at pictures. I fullfill my needs. No one should feel shame. Sometimes I do. I guess that's the cost of being a happy man.

It's my own fault really, no one knows my urges. No one knows about the box under my me and my wife's bed. Except my wife. She thinks it's funny, to have Playboys in this day and age. It's not the Playboys. I don't care about a tit or two. It's the pictures I hide in them. That's where the shame lies. The red faces, my secret humilation.

I didn't take those pictures, I don't have the guts to anything like that. Not with my own kids around. My shame would just explode. I didn't take them, I swear. They're just pictures. Maybe it's not what is in those photos, maybe it's the fact that I have to hide it in an 80s Playboy. But I shouldn't be ashamed, these are my own urges. I haven't hurt anybody. There shouldn't be shame in my pleasure.

Sometimes I get scared, though.

That one day my kids will be scrambling around the house, looking under my bed.

That they'll pull out the Playboy.

That they'll see little Jimmy down the street in them. With his own little face, his own shame sitting in his bare stomach.

My face is red.

My shame sits.

I was born with these urges. I shouldn't be with shame.

Everybody looks at pictures.

I do.

My crotch is hard. Why is my crotch hard?

It's pulsing. No, that's a bulge, a big pulsing bulge.

Is that a dick? Why is a penis attached to my crotch? Why is it pulsing? I need to pee.

How do I pee with a penis, a hard one at that? I need to get out of bed. I'm out of bed and my crotch looks like Pinocchio went on a lying spree. I really need to piss. But I have a fucking penis.

Okay, this shouldn't be that hard. I just gotta hold the thing down, like a water hose. Do I need to wipe it after? No, no that's dumb. Here I go.

Well, that wasn't so bad. I mean, wasn't so bad until my penis flung up. Now there's pee everywhere. And my penis is still hard. Morning wood, they call it? Maybe I should call someone.

That is possibly the worst idea I've ever had. The bathroom smells of piss and I have a penis attached to me. Where did my vagina go? Oh my god, where did my tits go? Not that I had any before. I'm going to my mirror.

I'm a man.

I don't look too bad. I'm kinda handsome, maybe it's the aura of my rock hard dick bulging through my underwear. My tightass underwear.

There is no way I can wear any of my clothes.

I'm wishing I stuck with my tomboy phase now. I look like I just came out of Ru Paul's dressing room. I love Ru Paul. I don't love my new penis. It's a decent size. God, I'm a sexy man.

I'm a man.

I'm gonna call in sick. What does my voice sound like? It better sound like Tom Hiddleston's.

I sound like a 40-year-old smoker. Whatever, no calling in sick. I need to think.

My dick is still hard.

Do I need to rub one out? This feels perverted. But it's my penis, right? This is my body. Is this my body? Did I switch with some random's body? I really need to rub one out. Can I do this quick? I feel like death gripping the thing is unhealthy, but I'm not a fucking doctor.

No doctor can fix this, I assure you.

This feels like my body. My body as a man, I guess.

Do erections go away? They have to, right? I'm googling this.

Okay, I'm not waiting half an hour for my dick to get soft, Google.

I'm gonna do it.

This is gonna be a long day.

Dear April,

You fell from the stars, burning and bleeding. You were angry.

God you were always so angry.

Rage seeped into your skin like the pain that bled from soul. But I loved you anyway. I fell into your universe, your beautiful, messy universe. Our pain bound us together. Then you were happy, but happiness couldn't fix you, April. Nothing could fix you.

You made me believe that you didn't need help, you made me believe that pain was good, and that your universe wasn't falling apart. But I loved you, I wanted to believe that we were okay, that you were okay. I did for awhile, but denial can only go a long way.

Then you were angry again.

I found my own universe, one with stars set ablaze, one that didn't make the broken bleed. I told you I found it, my private, little universe. You sent your rage after it, and you blew it to pieces. Then I was angry.

But I still loved you. Then you became my universe, and God were you happy.

You were happy to be wanted. But making one person your soul source of happiness is a dangerous game, but you didn't care. You didn't care that I held the weight of your pain. You just made me bleed.

I kept you from shaking, but you just kept falling. You fell into more pain, you pulled too. I became tired, but you kept asking for time. Again and again and again and again. And I gave you it. I gave you time and gave you time and gave you time. You called it a gift. But time is not something to be given, April, and it's not something to be take. It just sifts. You wanted a chance to make better choices, but you didn't, and times moves on whether you do or don't.

I don't know why I let you stay in my mind for so long. I don't know why I let your bruised rage sit in my soul. I don't know why I let myself bleed.

You returned to the stars, I hope you're finally happy, April.

I loved you.

- Rose

He saw her, what a pity that was.

The pale man stared at her, the yellow-haired girl who stood at 5'4 with dry lips that wore a pathetic excuse for a smile, waiting for her overpriced coffee. She was tired and small, and his sad, little eyes never left her frame. He wanted to smell her, hold her, need her.

And God, did he need her.

He steps followed her to her apartment complex, a cheap place, nothing special. The man didn't care, he just wanted to consume. So he did.

It took a hot minute but he knew everything there was to know about her. Simple things like where she worked, who her boyfriend was, her name. You know, all the boring stuff. He only cared about the seven things he learned about her in those small three months.

1. She went to that dreadfully expensive coffee shop every Tuesday on her break.

2. She always wore something blue in every outfit, always.

3. She annotated her poetry books. How literary.

4. She likes to dance to the Guardian of The Galaxy soundtrack at night.

5. She goes to improv classes.

6. Shes a master at cooking Meat Loaf.

7. She loves the Beatles.

She was perfect.

Like I said he didn't care for her name.

He made himself perfect for her. He memorized all the lyrics to every single Beatles song know to man, he watched Guardian of The Galaxy twenty-two times, he learned to eat Meat Loaf without throwing it up. (He didn't care for that either.)

He was perfect, all he needed was an opening. It didn't come, not one that fit his requirements anyway. So the pathetic eyed, pale man got a job at God foresaken coffee shop his little birdy was so fond of.

They offically met on a grey Tuesday. Her soiled eyes glanced into his, she asked for a Vanilla Ice Latte. She felt tired like always, he felt fate was finally working in his favoring. Like all was meant to be.

They made small talk about the Guardian of the Galaxy. She named Drax as her favorite character, he pretended that he didn't know that already. They laughed and smiled, as if there was a spark. He wrote his number down on her cup.

She never called.

What a pity that was.

The man wondered what it was all for. They were meant to be and she threw it all away. He was meant to consume her.

He destroyed her instead.

It wasn't hard, his birdy wasn't a fighter.

He whispered all his promises to her.

She fell into nothing.

Red and blue lights came for him. He didn't care, he destroyed himself.

What a pity that was.

What a pity that was.

What a pity that was.