No one told me, Death, was a she She stopped by my house, We had tea She spread her black wings In my sitting room, She was beautiful But smelled of doom, I called her a *****, She said to me, "Sorry, my dear, I'm necessity."
What makes me horribly gut-wrenchingly sad, is that at my weakest moments, I didn’t even think I deserved my tears. Like somehow, in the grand scheme of things, My pain isn’t validated. Others have suffered worse, Why should I think I deserve to cry? What a low place to fall. That even my agony was a Flaw.