Death awaits you, holding a sign with your name written in sharpie.

You’ll head straight toward it, your bottom lip bleeding from you biting it in anticipation.

When you were twelve, you asked mom, “What happens when we die?” She just laughed, kissed your cheek, and said, “Ask me another time.”

And when you were thirteen, you climbed to the roof and tried to fly.

You met death that day too, except he didn’t bother with introductions.

He knew before you did that it wasn’t your time, so he just laughed, helped you up, and said “See you soon.” The next time you met death was on a foggy day in the month of June.

You swear he looked you in the eyes, carried your mom away, said, “Let life bloom.”

You skipped the funeral, sat in your room, and played your favorite tune.

You sold all your stuff that day, gave all your special things away, and set off to never see another day.

That’s when you heard him call your name, it sounded like it was from far away, but, he stood before you, darkness in his sway.