You Will Die. I Will Not Cry.

I am a collection of days,
the pendant trophy that hangs
around your neck.
I am the melted down knight chess piece,
that you reshaped to be a pawn,
to carry in your pocket for good luck.
I am the empty space, that fills your mind
right before you blow out that candle,
and remember what you did, before closing your eyes.
I am the memory, that sticks to your clothes
and is etched into the lines in your hands,
that no longer serve you as they used to.
I am the girl that is now a woman,
and you are the old man that is now a shell
of the demon you used to be.
I will be there, the day you die, surrounded
by tubes and drips. I will be the last face you see,
and I will take that trophy back.
Because I lived.
And you, you are about to die.
No blood or master plans,
just your frailty that caught up to you
in the most painful ways.
Funny how the universe works.
I didn’t have to do a thing.
But I will watch, content as the
black winged angels come to
carry your rotten soul away.
I will tell them your name,
and if it’s all the same
I will offer no tears.
There have been enough of those.