Death Skipped the Doorbell and Just Walked In

*Write Club Post*

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The saying “Death came knocking on my door” is all lies.

Death doesn’t knock, if he did,

I wouldn’t have to open the door, wouldn’t have to let him in.

Really, he just walks in, and acts like he owns the place.

Because with the twitch of his icey fingers,

He can change everything.

He already has.

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Death has come to my house before,

Settled himself in my favorite chair

And grinned as we walked on the ceiling,

Our world turned around.

But this time was different.

He took my hand and made me watch

As my family tore themselves apart,

Their lives in his hands as he plays God.

But not me, he left me alone.

Oh why did he do that?

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I used to call him “Grandpa Violin”

Because I couldn’t remember “Vard”

We used to do push ups together,

His goal was always 11.

He played board games with me when I begged him to,

Climbed trees to pick me the perfect apple,

And collected snails in milk jugs

To watch them fall when they reached the top.

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Grief didn’t hit me as hard as everyone else,

Actually, I don’t think she hit me at all,

She passed right over me.

I guess Grief was afraid to lock hands with Death.

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I never cried, not at the hospital,

Not when I recieved “news”

And not at the surreal funeral.

I didn’t feel anything looking at the corpse in the casket.

I felt numb at the burial,

Cold as I watched raindrops race from tear ducts.

Why didn’t I cry?

Why have I still not cried?

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Now he’s gone

And I feel nothing.

Is this peace? Denial?

Or maybe it’s just because Death’s grip has frozen my heart.

I want to kick him out,

Want to tear my hand out of his claws

And feel something.

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Death delivered something I didn’t ask for.

I know I said I didn’t want to feel the pain,

But I lied,

I want to feel it all.

Invite Grief and Sorrow over for dinner,

They can stay as long as they like.

Because I can’t live with Death on my own.

He’s got my heart in his hands

And looks forward with blood thirsty eyes.

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Is it possible to kill Death?

Hand me a knife,

I’ll sure as hell try it.

Carve away his smug smile

And drag his body out of my house.

I’ll bury him in a grave so deep

The only sound he can hear is screams

Of the damned souls he pulled to hell.

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And before he can crawl his way out,

I’ll lock my door, seal it off

Barricade myself inside.

There will be no more break ins,

No more uninvited guests.

Then if Death decideds to act like a deity,

He’ll have to come knocking.

And I won’t have to let him in.

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-The Splintered Pencil