Dying is an art
I’m falling and in my head I think, “I must be dreaming”
Because there is no way this is the end for me.
Me? Who has escaped death countless times before.
Who has awoken from the darkness amidst white linens and strange faces.
Completely unscathed. Who has killed herself a thousand times before.
With pills and drugs and recklessness.
Who, when injured, lets the blood run from pink flesh
to watch it change from red to orange to brown.
I’m falling but I think by some incident, “This is not over.”
What’s that quote by Sylvia Plath?
is an art, like everything else.
I do it exceptionally well.
I used to think that quote suited me.
But really, surviving is my art
or maybe nearly dying?
I guess you’d say I’m a near-death artist.
I do it so it feels like hell.
I do it so it feels real.
I guess you could say I’ve a call.
But I’ve been such a tease.
And when you play with death that way.
After awhile you’ll have to answer.
Or he’ll grab you. Ready or not.
“Is this the end?” I scream through the choking wind.
Or am I about to wake up again?