The first time I died,
I was a soldier, hanging
on the side of an armored truck, barreling
through a vivid green jungle, bullets
whizzing by, driver screaming, ears ringing,
skin slick with sweat--
I lost my grip.
I was riddled with holes before I even hit the ground.
The second time I died,
I was alone. I sat
cross-legged in the center of a large, empty room,
staring at the doorway.
A masked man came in, saw me,
and shot me in the face.
I couldn’t see through the blood.
The third time was less personal.
A bomb dropped as I walked home from school.
I ran from the wall of light, sneakers beating on pavement, gasping for air--
then, it overtook me.
My home, my street, my world unraveled before me.
I slowed down to watch.
The fourth time, there was no light.
I walked down the dark hall to my room, on my way to bed,
my bare feet creaking on the familiar floor.
A little clown-faced demon
sprung at me, smiling, and ate my heart out.
I felt so cold.
The fifth time, I tried to hide.
I sped through the winding halls of a strange house, dozens of stories high,
hundreds of rooms--
I ran into one with an open door and ducked beneath the bed.
The small old woman smiled when she found me, asked me to follow her,
gesturing with her bloody knife.
When I followed, she began to cry.
I hugged her.
She stabbed me in the stomach.
Sixth time--I fell.
I flailed as the ground approached,
I screamed apologies.
I was still screaming as I sunk into the ground,
as I felt myself flattening, becoming liquid,
becoming a stain on the pavement.
Suddenly, I was elsewhere,
and I stood before a man in a t-shirt and jeans.
I asked him if I was dead.
He shrugged and walked away.
Kommentare