death becomes us.

by saracrolick

death card

I saw the future today.

I watched as truths fell to rubble, pieces of certainty stripped away. I watched in awe and a little bit of horror as walls crashed, wrenched from foundations. Hairline cracks finally giving way to the insufferable weight of time and neglect. Quakes touching bricks and bones alike. And I cried in despair–or inexplicable joy–as I realized: all will be lost.

Years will do what my heart could not: dismantle the naivety of a stumbling, fumbling child.

And it felt strange to see her go; knowing her and her ways so intimately through these years–feeling like a stranger in her presence all the same. You’ve seen her, I’m sure. Her steps are light, but somehow clunky. Her tone is sweet, but quivers with the roil of a restless mind. So much caring for, so much tending to, so much energy to wrangle her home.

And still, she disappears to far away places–to dangerous places.

She flees to preserve herself, unaware of how trying those runaway locations could be. Grasping at the hollowed walls of a tipping kaleidoscope, spinning, spinning as colors crash through glass to roar down on her. Rough meets smooth. Sharp meets tender. Broken meets… well, broken. And yet, she manages to smile through fear and pain and discontent, baring teeth as the cheerful spectrum suffocates her skin.

Quieted by the joy she clung so fearfully to.

But that child comes apart in this coveted future; loses her tender, awkward footing. She falls away in pieces, somewhat unceremoniously: petals of a winter’s tulip settled in among the ashes, rocking in hushed winds.

And though time travel has left me covered in dust and navigating a new sort of awkward, I’m content with–even proud of–the annihilation I witnessed in this advancing place.

Death is coming.

The expiration of a life inadequate; buried in last-ditch efforts of self “help” and paper thin wishing.

Death becomes us on rare occasions and in this future I’m wearing it like a fine fur.

Dripping with the gore of yesterdays, wearing blood like crimson lipstick.

And I smile at this vision, for I had once resolved to wear bold shades like this; all the time worrying, wondering, how could I possibly?

Step one: put on red lipstick. 

Step two: wear red lipstick. 

Life doesn’t require so much thinking. Not in this fuck-yes future, anyway.

Goodbyes, disappointments, self-sabotage, dripping from self-inflicted wounds. They’re the victims of this blessed war, not me. Beautiful carnage; eradication, with my own trembling fingers on the gun.




What’s left? What’s right. The realization that maybe–just maybe–the things we make “things” don’t matter so much. The tone doesn’t have to be deep, or sullen, passionate, or anything. The air doesn’t have to be light, or hopeful, happy or anything. The look, the thought, the message doesn’t have to be anything. It can simply be what it already so-magnificently is.

And with this

I hear the murmur of an afterlife and I relax.

With this

I feel the moment instinctually collapse.

With this

that child releases her apprehensive grip and I’m reborn.

Death arrives and I am free.