I did die.
Dying was a venetian blind, all parts working together but not in the same direction.
Like a succulent, an aloe leaf—break it and it heals.
I died like boxes in a storage locker—
no hurry to open.
Died like a myth—the watermonster leapt out,snatched me from myself. There was a honed instrument—
there was a small child—
there was devastation in the grocery aisle.
Sometimes I’m asked: How could you tell?
Easy, I didn’t have to go far to find the cold.Dying hurt so much. Or was that living?
I was too quiet to know.
