Poem · Writers Write

The Skull



I killed Death today. Knocked him clean off the wall. Shattered his skull into sharp wedges. I never liked him much. He took my mother, my father, my brother. Who does that guy think he is anyway?


Who did he think he was? It doesn’t matter now. I murdered him.

After I did it, I let out a sigh. Relief. No more checking behind me. Wondering. Is he waiting? Does he know I have a head cold? My triglycerides are off the chart? I’m allergic to bees? Now I can get on with it. Do what I want. Quit pacing the floor when I can’t sleep. Worrying. Do I have enough left for 30 more years, 20 more, 10?

It’s okay to climb the mountain. It’s good to stand on the ledge. Lean out. Take in the view.

He can’t touch me.

When the deed was done, I swept up his bones and dumped them in the trash. I didn’t recycle. I can’t think of anything worse than Death coming back from the dead.


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