You snapped me out of a trance, and with confusion swarming the muddle of your deepest brown eyes, you asked me in earnest: “Why the pale face?”. 

Death is near.

 

The flowers keep piling up by my bedside, wilting under the scrutiny of the sunlight’s prominent glaring. The sun scoffs as it scurries to the horizon – eager to please – at the thought of giving the dead orchids. Flowers for the dead.

Death is near.

 

I scatter my bones into the nighttime. Fetch me a bone, will ya? And I’m left paralyzed, only my toes wiggling in anticipation, as the man by the window eagerly reaches towards every bone with a glint in his eye. I do not comment: not at the fact that I ponder over his hands prying at my flesh, nor the eerie realization that I lose my breath from when I catch the resemblance of the man to my own reflection. I wake up – still.

Death is near.

 

The water ripples at the surface. I cackle a bit at my warped face in the mirky waters, wondering how such familiarity can lean towards foreignness all the same. I am no stranger to my own body. I have tugged at every arm, leg, and anything in between until I was accustomed to the numbness of blood under my fingernails. I check my nails – a pearly, heavenly white. I check my reflection in the mirror (two bright eyes staring back at me) as the water goes down the drain in a satisfying drip, drip, drip.

Death is near.

 

At one point, in the depths of my memory, I grew fond of the idea of closing my eyes shut at the sight of unwanted company. It was a foolish idea as a mere child, stubborn and unforgiving to the lash of parenting, yet the darkness was welcoming. At least, a lot more forgiving than a scrutiny as bright as the sun. My eyes have remained shut for a long time, growing less and less weary as the voices disappeared into the hum of background noise. Into silence. Into nothing at all.

Death is near.

 

I drag my body down to the river and let it float with the fish. I wonder why, at this very moment, that I finally feel at peace. Drowning must be a pleasant feeling – a thought I tuck safely into the back of my mind with a lock and key. I swallow the key whole.

Death is near.

 

The paleness looks nice against my flesh, I presume. It brings out the depths of the blood circulating my veins – the blood painted on my skin.

Death is near.

 

Alas, the blood within me is sucked empty, until I am nothing but the hollow shell I carved prettily with the sharpness of tainted fingernails. Drowning feels nice, like the highest point to which you can’t fathom looking down. I’ve always liked the downfall more. I dare to look earth in the eye, and to that I jump.

Death is near.

 

Death is at the bottom.

Death is near.

 

---

The type of writing I tried out today was a chant poem. I don’t think I followed the format as smoothly as I hoped.

https://weheartit.com/entry/305883149