Death is a stalker of my mind,
passing through my thoughts. By night he beats his wings
against my subconscious,
chiseling away at my brain.
He is a bat, sinking his teeth into my flesh;
slowly ******* on my will to live.

By day, he is a charming businessman
dressed to the nines;
black suede shoes reflect the light missing from his eyes.
All suit but no tie,
for he wraps it tightly against my skull
and pulls.

He seduces me with promises of peace,
then slits my throat in hungry, violent demands.

I try to fight him off, but he is beautiful.
So I instead reach my arms out
to the boundless void,
and desperately grasp for his hand.

It is cold, but it is something.

I want him all the same, for he is safe,
and love,
and all things good.
A mirage of the senses.

There he lurks.
Ever present in the back of my mind;
bouquet of flowers in one hand,
a broken promise in the other.

Which one

will he present to me

today?