couldn’t act like death is a stranger

can’t help
but to admit that
i smirked
at the idea of
writing death,
i can’t help
but to think
i have never
written
about
anything
else
death cheated with me
and had the
audacity to call me
dishonest
but i always
kiss him, good night
he’ll still love me
if i don’t

i was eight when
i met death for the first time
he would have apologized
if the words were in his vocabulary
instead,
he asked to bargain with me
i asked him for art
he gave me poetry
and he kisses it
out of
my mouth
every night

__ar.

(prompt about death)

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