“in recognizing death”

I see death.

I welcomed it with open arms — just as you did —although I refrain from pressing my thin frame to it, because I know it will seep into me and take me much faster than it did you.

Instead, I acknowledge it in the mornings with a gentle greeting.

I bid it goodbye whenever it leaves the house (so in case death dies on the road, at least I said goodbye).

I give it a solid goodnight too (if death dies in its sleep, at least I said goodnight).

This is no small feat.

I should throw a party and bake a cake.

Maybe invite everyone in my vicinity to bask in my accomplishment.

Look, I recognize death!

Put that on a banner for me.

Should I hire someone to do it?

That'll give me the pleasure of watching them hang the tacky cardboard and paint situation in the same place where you hanged yourself.

I like to think I'm handling this gracefully.

Handling myself gracefully.

Hanging myself gracefully.

But, I'm being so strong.

That's what I've been told.

For, in recognizing death, you require a similar amount of strength to that of a beast burdened by its owner.

And if I can be so strong — if I am so strong — then does that not make you, beautifully dead you, at fault for my state of vicious mourning?

It's been declared.

You are now the owner of the beast that has taken my form in response to your death.

So, go ahead and lug me along this trembling, winding path you've unconsciously crafted.

I swear I won't cry while you pull on the chains looped around my neck with those unfeeling limbs of yours.

Simply guide me along.

Keep ringing the bell.

Forbid yourself from peeling open those lips dried with death to speak gentle platitudes of death is just a mindset.

Disregard how I can't even thank you for your silence.

Your guidance.

My obedient compliance.

Keep ringing the bell.

Draw me further within the depths of your shadow, my owner.

That's what you are.

The silken shadow that looms over my hunched figure, rocking back and forth, till I comply and fall down, down, down, into my your life.

There are layers to my meticulous grief, and may I warn you that rage is one of them.

Rage that battles against the inherent desire of my heart to understand you.

Rage that wears down the tolerance I have towards my owner, beautifully gone you.

Rage that crashes down like a timid wave on the beach, concealing the bubbling, scurrying sadness beneath.

That’s just the first bite of my grief cake, and you shouldn't be surprised if there's rot nestled within it.

Instead, be grateful. Be gracious.

This beast made a fulfilling cake for you to plunge your death marinated hands into.

Grate them against the moist layers of my heart and soul that lay sodden with misery.

Do it. Push the rotten mess into my face and let me watch you die again, again, again.

Smear it into every crevice of my worn down features and taint the identity of my being so that when I trudge around on sunken ground with your weight pressing into my back, the world can view you and the grief I hold etched into my entire being.

You brought death inside our home and inside me.

You deserve a heartfelt round of applause and thanks.

But, I'll leave you to imagine it.

Imagine it behind your death stricken eyelids.

And, let me rest in the peace that you won't have.

For I am still living,

but I see death.