They made me write something here

61.

The news.

If I may call it that.

Is so heavy.

I don't want to.

Hold it anymore.

We are all dying.

Just some of us.

Are dying faster.

Than others.

We are not immortal.

At least.

Not in these bodies.

When I go.

I don't want to leave behind.

Scars.

Like most of us.

I might have failed.

But my goal in life.

Was to never let anyone.

Get scarred.

Except myself.

She said.

As she lay curled.

In a ball of pure pain.

Her heart thumping.

Rebelliously.

Playing out a rhythm.

Unknown to any doctor.

The rhythm.

Of God.

Taking her.

Home.