people like to talk
about ways they
want to meet their
demise.

there's this recurring theme
of herocism, bravery
dying in battle, sacrifice for one
another.

some even joke about it
make it sound like something
comical, funny, like some kind of
movie.

the media plays up death
to be something to be cherished,
something to give your life a final
meaning.

dying for love, for loss,
for country, for state,
for freedom, for slavery, for
glory.

they romanticize the word
until it begins to sound like
some sick kind of gift instead of a
curse.

still, they all recognize
that they would rather breathe
than find themselves 6 feet
under.

but what happens when
you realize that, maybe,
death isn't so
beautiful?

does death lose all its honor,
its glory, its divine salvation
when it's delivered by your own
hand?