Death is not a destination.
Death is encompassing.
I smell it when I breath in the rusty stench of blood on my fingers.
I feel it in the pain that reverberates with each step
as if I had driven a nail into the bottom of my boot and I felt it every time it hit the floor.
Death is not a destination.

It's woven into the fabric of my skin,
using a thread so thin
it echoes the line between what makes me a bad person and a good person who does bad things.
It echoes the line between life and death  but in a different way to the finishing line of a race because
death is not a destination.

It's the ball of rage that is fired up within me
at the slightest of things.
A reminder that I can't ever escape but can't quite tick off my list.
Death is not a destination but a feeling deep within me
and no matter how far I reach with my sharpened blade
I will never find.
Besides, I can no longer wish death upon the body I spent painful years learning to love,
the defenceless pulse nor my eager heart.

Death is not a destination,
but it is mine.
Whether it be warm or cold
it will welcome me.
I will be entering myself,
the most secret crevices that I found
the day the sadness took hold.
I will escape.
I will be free.