I am not afraid to die. 
I am not afraid for others to die. 
Death has shown me no mercy.  
Death has shown its fangs,  
its power. 
Death has mystery, 
death has suddenness, 
death has ‘inclusiveness’. 
 
The inclusiveness that took my great grandma 
92 years old - 
at her time. 
The inclusiveness that took my great uncle 
73 YEARS OLD - 
before his time. 
The inclusiveness that took Cole Haan  
18 YEARS OLD - 
before his time. 
The inclusiveness that took baby Torin  
13 MONTHS OLD - 
before his time. 
All taken before I was the ripe age of 14. 
 
At some point I got used to death. 
I got used to death because if I didn’t  
watching my  great uncle get weaker, 
yellower, 
skinnier, 
because death decided cancer was the way to go - 
will tear me apart. 
Death will leave my heart shattered, 
death will leave me with fear, 
death will leave me with everlasting images. 
And I am left with the memories. 
 
I am left with the knowledge that they are gone. 
I am left there to pick up my shattered heart 
because that is not a part of death’s job. 
Death’s job is to kill, 
my job is to live. 
 
Because the first time someone dies, 
my heart shatters. 
I barely have time to put it back together  
with rough edges, 
some holes, 
bandages, stitches, 
before death comes again. 
 
But this time my heart shatters less. 
It shatters still, 
but less. 
I pick it back up, 
cutting myself on accident less than I did the first time, 
and here death comes again. 
 
But my heart has more stitches, 
more bandages. 
And it breaks, 
but it does not shatter anymore. 
I pick it up faster; 
I was ready this time. 
And here comes the famous death once more. 
 
This time I barely feel my heart break. 
It still does, 
but I am prepared. 
I am not as phased. 
And I pick it up, 
bandage it like a paper cut, 
and stand up more  
– if not as –  
strong as before. 
 
Isn’t it a bit sad 
that I have become used to death?