I think I can paint this world for you now. From decadence and disorderly life to death and blank slates. Something I own, expressed dearfully to you as if I have always owned it. Perhaps remembered by no one in the end, but for now, maybe even just a glimpse of light from the murk and more, just to prove it can exist. even if it fades within the hour.

Sincerly,
       Rosier.

Dear Death,

What was it like? What was the thing that took you from me. What could possibly grow inside of you so much so as to rip you to pieces without me knowing. 


Every word I have been trying, trying to talk to you, trying, to shove as much of me as I can onto this paper and back at you. 


I wanted to put the most of me that I could... 


(Creeping through broken sobs my thoughts bounce terrified between memories of you.) 


As much of me written on paper, talking in the way I talk. 


When you've always been there, when your smile started to pull the corners of my mouth up against my knowledge. 


My face spits despair, and I cannot cry. 


Fighting my body to pull itself forward. Reaching the vessel all my love has been poured. 


Last Funeral is not Your Own