sincerely, life and death

A brief letter from Life, to you:

To Whom It May Concern,
The first thing I want you to know is that you have the most beautiful collarbones that I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot of collarbones. I'd love to see you sculpt something.

The second thing I want you to know is that I'm passive aggressive. And I'm jealous, I'm so so jealous. I can't help it; it's why I broke your bones to keep you home, it's why your favorite song makes you cry. I wanted you to be there when I took the lasagna out of the oven, I wanted you to be there when I colored the sky red, I wanted you to see just how violently I loved you.

I bruised you, I know that. Your voice must've been too quiet, your skin must've been too soft; I couldn't help it, I put my hands on your shoulders and pushed. You didn't fall gracefully, but I didn't expect you to. You're not a feather or a crystal vase, you're a human being, and when you fall you bleed.

Your soft hair, your bad habits, the rasp of your voice; I'm sick, I'm tired, I'm a glutton for punishment, and you were oblivious and you never raised your hand in class. I'm sorry for the sleepless nights. I'm sorry for the painkillers and the broken mufflers, yes, that was my fault. Yes, I may not have been very kind but you, you, were the one who threw me to the dogs. You're a heartbreaker, ask anyone. You're cruel, ask anyone. I'm getting ahead of myself. This is a love letter, I swear. 

I don't want to tell you lies, but this one is a good one: from now on, I'll be good to you. I won't tear the Band-Aids off prematurely, I won't drive recklessly, I won't give your mother a cold just to see you search the cupboards for NyQuil with your beautiful, beautiful hands. Yes, I'm lying, but I can see that it's what you wanted to hear. All you ever wanted to do was live but look how funny it is that I was the one keeping you from it. 

Quiet, quiet now, and you can feel me. You can literally hear me. I'm right there in your chest, big, bright, and bloody, 72 beats per minute, and even if you hold your breath, even if you pray, I'm still there saying: "You wanted it this way, you wanted it this way".

Sleep well.

Yours,

Life

A brief letter from Death, to you:

My love,

I've tried to be generous with you. I hope that you know that the entire moon is for you. And the stars? Yours. I picked you up off the ground and pulled the glass and gravel from your knees, and you never cried once, did you? You're braver than me. 

Sometimes at night when I'm asleep on the bottom bunk, I hear you roll over and call out into the dark, "Death? Are you there?" You have a lot of bad dreams. "Death? Are you there?" And I don't answer, because you like it that way. I'm afraid for the day when you beckon me closer. Too soon, my dear, it's too soon.

You're stubborn. I didn't love you for the way you fried the tamales, I loved you for the chicken bones and the way you checked the recipe. I never loved you right.

If it were up to me, I'd never turn off the lights. And I'd never off the television or the transistor radio or the heater. I want everything to live forever. I want electricity, all the time. I want fuel consumption, all the time. I want you to fall in love, I want you to take your medicine, I want you to grow your hair out and then cut it all off. I hope you never see the end coming because I never want you to slow down.

This sort of thing is hard for me. Because I can only promise you one thing, and you don't want to hear it. You swear that we're strangers, but no one is buying it, dear. You're so possessive, so quick-tempered and soft-spoken and frustrated by the ones you love the most. You used to say this to me: "You have always been mine." Yes, yes, I won't deny it. I have always been yours.

Before you burn this letter, before you scratch my face out of all of the old pictures of the two of us, I want you to know that I tried to be gentle. You're angry? Well, so am I. You're hurt? Well, so am I. I feel it all. Blame me. Blame me.

Sleep well.

Be safe,

Death

This has been the Devastation Diaries.