My Friend, Rotting In Hell

Death is unlike any place that I have seen. When I am tired, I press my hands to the cold, stilled water. Sometimes, I still expect my hands to come away wet and soaked in the black liquid. I know I am there for a reason. What reason it is is not necessarily known. “Be not proud!” I call out unto Death. Death does not answer. Death must not understand what I had meant. I am stuck, cornered in this crevice of nothingness, beneath the Earth’s surface. This is my punishment, this confusion that Death grants me in my many days of silence. Won’t you help me? Death seems to be dressed in glory, draped with the thin fabric of love and longing. Death reaches a hand to me, and I take it willingly. Death, how I do love thee so.

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