Letter to my death

What if I’d go away? Not tomorrow morning, not in two days, six months or ten years. Now. Right now. If I’d go now, to whom my senses would be missed? From which memory would I be erased? Who would miss my taste, my smell, my laughter? If I’d drown in my beer’s bubbles, if I’d flee in the dark of my thousand tears, if I’d evaporate to the heat of my unfulfilled desires, what would happen? Not much.

And staying? To face my holes, fill them up with impure air, feel them crush my stomach, see my holes becoming oceans and taste the iodine of my regrets? For what purpose... Staying and not understanding what for, staying and continue to play, continue to make believe, continue to look at them going away from me like a never ending withdrawing tide? Looking at them ignoring me, looking right through me?

I can’t receive any more punches, I’m in pieces, I can’t count them all, those pieces are so many and so small… I can’t psychoanalyze myself any longer, I just want to cry and see my water become ice. I want to become an iceberg and melt. Implode. I’m already dead and forgotten anyway.

Those who love me will survive, I know it full well, I’m in good position to know that and maybe they will even become better, stronger. Then they too, will disappear. Only shadows will be left, not darker than others. Mine will mix with them. My blood will be as lost as theirs; there is nothing I can do about that.

So, my Death, I am awaiting You in those yellow and red dreams; so, my Death, I can smell Your burning calls for me, in which I cannot recognize any voice I have ever heard before; so, my Death, You feel like my mother's hatered touch, my husband looking away, my children drifting and my skin losening around my soul.

So, dear Death... are You ready for me? for I am...