I MADE LOVE TO THE GRIM REAPER

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Written by: Chamonix

Mornings are fuzzy.

snooze. snooze. coffee. snooze.

I sit up, my mouth is stale. To my left is last nights unfinished beer can. I kill it. I’m running late again. Skip breakfast. Throw on my only pair of pants. Fumble around for keys. Rush outta the house and sprint through the dirty streets of Brooklyn to sit amongst all the other sleepy fucks on their way to get that ca$$$h.

I speed down the subway station stairs with some help of that robotic bitch over the speakers.

“The next L train is now arriving on the Rockaway Parkway bound track.”

It takes three anxious tries to swipe my metro card. At the correct pace, I’m finally granted access. I run to the train car and the doors close just as soon as I get both feet through. I can relax again. I get as comfortable as you can on those plastic blue seats and we head east. Everyone is sleepy as shit and I’m just glad it’s a quiet morning. I look forward to the long minute we get to pass the graveyard.

My eyes catch a routine interest out the window. I’m drooling as I fantasize about my gravestone. I step out of my trance and some motherfucker is giving me looks. I take it as some destined catalyst to blow off my endeavors.

The train comes to a halt and I’m drooling even more. The guy still has this dumb look on his face that I’m really starting to hate. I tell him to fuck off but inside I’m thanking him. I take some stairs. I’m in some weird rush to nowhere. Its grey out today and I imagine the clouds are suffocating the sun, I like it. I get off. The cemetery entrance is wide open. It’s inviting, like the warm hug of a grandmother. I’m the only one here and I realize this place belongs to me. I see you. Our bodies mesh like magnets and it’s so fuckin romantic.

Did anyone ever tell you the grim reaper is one hell of a kisser?

It smells rotten and my mouth is watering. You give me the look and I know exactly what it means. You ask what my preferred method is. He says I have options, and I think damn, what a privilege.

My greatest fantasy is to be choked to death. Hands on… face to face. Piercing eyes. I want to know that I’m dying. I want to slowly exhale consciousness. He takes my throat in his cold bony hands and I smile.

We’re ripping the fabric of time and space, I cross this threshold into the weirdosphere. It’s warm again. I’m free.

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Death is glamorous; a zeitgeist renaissance parliament shift. Some Kim and Kanye, Sean Penn and Madonna shit. Flashing cash everywhere, green rivers flow out of my Gucci bag. You can have whatever you want here. Everyone is nice as tits and the parties are wild.

Satan’s a cool dude, he’s always a little antsy and it reminds me of the way I was before I died, and I find some comfort in it. He’s not much of a gentleman but I got eyes for him anyway. He often comes over for a cup of tea.

We roll a spliff and he asks for my opinion on his latest Tinder match. I’m a little bitchy because he always makes me feel like I’m special, but it’s ok because I want him to be happy.

“She’s cute, let’s keep her.” I say because in Hell we like to share. His face is struck with satisfaction.

“Oh do I like you.”

And that’s all it takes. All you had to do was be a little selfless, be a little kind.

He strikes me with this look that only Satan himself could ever give you, with the utmost sincerity in his loving black eyes and he says, “You know I wasn’t going to let that fucker God try to delude you. All the suckers go to Heaven, ya know. I watched you for a long time. You have a soul of gold. I had to preserve it. In Heaven they zap you of that shit. I couldn’t watch you waste away with those Jesus loving fucks. That shits like next level North Korea…”

He trails on but my mind drifts, I smile because it’s the first time I’ve ever felt at home. This is the peace I always sought out. The love here is endless, it’s so serene. And I wonder more about what good I did to get me here.

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