I hear her whispering to me
sweet, gentle words in my ear.
I want her to reach out
touch me, hold me, wrap her long spindly arms around me.
To take away the strain it takes to breath.
To tear away the persistent pain.
The pain that rips through my thoughts like the crash and ferocity of a wave
breaking on the shore.
I want her to keep talking to me.
She beckons me
“Come here, let me help you.”
She pulls me in as if she were doing everything to save me.

She might save me.
If I follow her the way she wants,
like the way I want to.
As if I were a moth chasing a child holding a wildly moving flashlight.
She might save me.
The more she whispers to me.
The more I crave her.
The more the pain rises like it’s an elevator,
shooting to the top of a skyscraper.

I might listen to her.
I might follow her.
I want to.
I want to see her, go to her.
I need to.
I need her to take away my pain like she promises.
A promise so strong two pinkies solidifying it would not be enough.

Death, she calls herself.

She might save me.