Death is waiting at my door, working relentlessly and desperately to get in
Itching and gnawing at the unfinished wood
Ripping slivers out of his gums
Peeling his muscles and tendons out of his arms, shrinking in size to slip between the floor and the frame
Making it clear he’s not finished until he has what’s left of my worn out being
Calling my name, ensuring I can not rest and ensuring I can not sleep
He shows up as the shadow hiding in my mothers bedroom, watching over her as she reads
Taking the pieces that slip off of her with each breath that she breathes
He’s the June bug on my patients chest as her wrists contract and her breaths go from labored to shallow, I will flick him away but he keeps insisting he stay above her heart
Just to the left of her sore sternum
He’s in the background of my childhood photos, only visible if you look closely
Getting closer with each year that I age
He is the faint whisper I hear as I walk down an empty hospital hallway, I’ll twist and turn looking for the body to match the words but he’s so hard to see.
It’s possible he is hiding in my hair
He’s the knot in my throat and tucked in the dark circles above my cheeks
He’s found solace in the scars on my wrist
He’s been following me around since I was 19
First he took my dad, found that wasn’t enough and took 26 people just to spite me
