Death is meant to come on a chariot of broken dreams or in the dark trenches of a storm, not in love letters and gifts.
He did not take my soul when I was meant to die. He did not want it all the other times that I’ve offered it to him on a silver platter. Yet, time and time again, he reminds me that I am his: His night monster, his dark love, his perfect other.
Death was the only thing keeping me alive. He watches me from his corner, taunts me with sweet messages, marks my body with his touch as I sleep.
He took the people that I love away from me. Still, no one believed me when I said that I saw the faceless man on the night of the accident.
