The night is shrill.
It snakes its fingers around your wrist
To spin you around and into its abyss,
Suddenly you have nothing left to move.
All your parts are gone and you become
An odd net of arteries and veins. It’s all on fire.
Death wasn’t what they said it would be, cold and scrawny. No.
Death was 5’9 and weighed 220.
Death had hands as big as shovels and a voice like gravel.
Death smiled when it saw my nostrils flare and my gaze square.
Death kissed me with 7 cigarettes still on its breath and tasted something like Robitussin.
Death grew anxious when its knees couldn’t bend far enough, when my clothes didn’t give way.
Death brought a friend with it to keep us company.
Death asked for my name and called me Silence.
The night is wailing.
It sharpens its talons behind the moon and paints prey in crimson as we pray in silence.
I don’t know how to not die every day I live.
Half the earth bears Death in its build, I smell the cigarettes in their heady sweat.
I taste the Robitussin in their penetrating eyes.
The night is shrieking.
It’s taken me by the shoulders with nails painted in tar and greed
It laughed as I cried and danced as I shook.
Death takes no lover it cannot swallow whole.
—  "The Eve of Mourn" - Sahar M.