the prospect of death is foreign to many as though they are too feeble to grasp the understandings of what it is to lose yourself in oneself's eyes. you lose yourself in every aspect and shape yourself to fit what everyone wants but it's never enough and in the end it's stolen from cold dead hands.
the prospect of death is something that people cannot understand because death is not just the loss of life. you cannot have crime without punishment. you cannot have life without death. death is what you feel when your body is too weak to care for itself anymore and it shuts down on the soul holding it alive.
the prospect of death is not saving or memento mori, the prospect of death is to be forgotten, wearing your heart on your sleeve through disheartened words of those who truly did not care as you slowly dwindled to your own grave. a soul can resonate with one but not others, and the moment the soul resonance is ripped the prospect of death becomes reality.
the prospect of death is not fear, it is not to harm, it is to protect. you must kill your past self to truly grow into the person you are meant to be. the resonance of souls, the crime, the punishment, life, death, memento mori.
love is a shameless thing as though you are only judged in the eyes of those above for the countless sins written across pale skin and breathless words. believe what you must in your lustful and gluttonous words but the moment they leave your mouth they become scars. it is a self suicide to love, a self suicide to crave, a self suicide to indulge.
love is a harmful thing as those above are pushing you towards others to watch you fall and your ribs crack under sheer heartbreak. ribs are to protect the lungs, not the heart, yet they are always swept up in the damage because they hold the human together. it is as though ribs are the core of the human, a sheer barrier protecting the gentle delicate insides of a broken girl.
the broken girl we observe today goes through life with a routine she always sticks to - wake up, school, leave, homework, sleep, repeat. i cannot detail her life because i do not live it. i cannot detail her life because i am not the creator holding it within my palms and deciding every footstep and breath she takes.
she is an image of the unknown, the prospect of love and death colliding, a pact within itself to destroy from inside out. the utter idea of a human mind being so exploitable by others is scary, however, i must remind you, the prospect of death is having your heart on your sleeve.
her crime? love.
her punishment? death.
death of what?, you may ask and dear reader i tell you that fate does not play by my hands. fate plays by no one's hands- it is a rabbit in the headlights of a fox. a rabbit spurred by sheer terror at the drop of a hat down a hole. life comes with death, it is a package deal, you will always live before you die.
but how does she live? the girl, i mean. how does she live? to follow her routine daily? maybe she screams for release. fate sent her way at the spur of a coin toss by the rabbit's instincts. will the fox grasp the rabbit within its jaws or will the rabbit live another day? that is up to the rabbit, the girl.
she takes another step, bag heavy as it is the weight on her shoulders.
"another day, memento mori." she mumbles with her hand over her chest.
