You danced on the frail blade that she held to her plump skin.
You swirled your hands around the sweaty trigger.
You blended into the cold crashing waves.
You hung onto the steep cliff knowing no one could stop you.
You whispered tiny daggers into his ears that he would absent-mindedly repeat.  
You grabbed her hand away from his harsh punch.
You lead him out of his misery but sparked new depression in her heart.
You showed her the light as her wrinkled hand slipped into yours.
You plucked at her food and changed the way her mirror would reflect herself.
Yet you grabbed the cord out of her hands.

I waited for you yet you never came,
You knew I wasn’t ready for your world.
Instead you handed me over to a boy.
A boy who would make my days shine,
But my nights cry at the absence of his words.

You new the pain he would hand me wrapped in pink paper was better than the tears of my family and friends.

You knew that I would much rather enjoy the cold breeze than the soft dirt.

You asked me: “Why would you ever wish that upon yourself?”
I merely replied: “We don’t all have a reason,”

“Why do you offer the gift of confidence to some and wait for their time yet rip the future from others?” I asked you as I watched my grandmother be cremated.

“Fate is my boss. I do not choose my clients,” Your suit crinkled as you held me in your arms, trying your best at comforting my broken soul.

But after all, you are just death.
You are merely a compartment in my closet of thoughts.

Often times I pick you from that cabinet and dwell over you when the night falls.

They call it overthinking.