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By Harriet Sim


Dear Death,


How can I satisfy you?


Do I not allow you hours of nightly torment?


Do I not lay my docile body out each night for you to infest and congest my fragile conscience?


You send surges of constraint around my bruised chest when you slip through the fragments of mental repression that I have damned upon you.


Why the fascination with cessation? Is genesis not a more rewarding occupancy for you?


Your selfish obsession with the decay of anatomy has manifested a fiery fury in my thoughts.


Why must you cultivate your infested garden in the once salubrious pancreas of my Grandfather, or lay down your contaminated roots in the rich marrow of my Aunt’s weakened bones?


Your timing of termination steals the rationality of many as they struggle to comprehend the finality of your odious act.


I should not mistake your gluttony for human flesh for greed, when you are so benevolent with the gift of pain.


I envy those that find solace in faith. The comfort of the known in unknown.


I find my solace in substance until I am reeked with the realisation that what draws me in only draws me closer to you.


Death you have stolen my sanity, of this I am sure.