Who Is Death

Death is just as beautiful as life, and just as messy, because they are the same. The only thing that changes is your perspective. You look up at her with the same fresh eyes as the thousands before you. Her hair whisps in the air, as if it was inspiration for willow trees. Her nails are long and narrow. They caress what little hair you have until you're half asleep. All to spare you the stress of being awake while transitioning between worlds. She kisses your forehead with her rosey lips to give you the color of life. Blood pumping to your brain, you're thinking, you hear a distant thumping. You try to memorize her face, but her eyes shine brighter as you're blinded into the living world. You miss her. You miss her soft hands holding your head up. You miss the warmth of her chest.

Soon enough you are craddled in the arms of someone warm. Her fingers brush your hair to the side. Your head rests against her warm chest, and you hear a familiar thumping. You feel your own rhythm match to her's. Death chose her for you, so you fall into complete trust of this woman. You trust her and Death; until she leaves you to run off with Death.

You no longer see death as warmth. Death is cold. She's nothing but pain. She should be avoided for as long as possible because you don't want to leave your loved ones feeling the same way you did. No matter how hard you fight, she always makes her visit.

You stare death in the eyes and the warmth you remember as a baby claws into your back in a scorching temperature. Your tears cloud your vision and all you can see is the contrast of what must be blood around her mouth against her pale skin. You try to run and create any obstacle to give you time to get to the door. You swing open the door and find her on the other side of it. Death doesn't follow the rules of psychics. She runs her fingers through your hair, all while staring into your eyes. You're paralyzed. No. You're dying. You feel your blood receed from the extemities to your heart. Death's golden eyes faded into a charred maroon. She digs her nails into your scalp as she grips your hair. Her lips tear apart, exposing her jagged and broken teeth, to let a screech leak between each tooth. Her grip finally tightens into a fist to snap your neck and release you on to the next world. It's all perspective.