Gotcha

Sitting in your favorite dress
The one that he loves
Sitting in the corner in your favorite dress
Death beckons you.

He whispers in your ear false truths
"I can make it stop."
Tears smearing your make up down your face
"I can make it stop."

You decide to listen to the voice of Death
Think, "Maybe he’s right."
But it will be too late when you find out
He lied.

With false hope swimming though you
Something grabs your attention:
The thing you swore to everyone you gave up
And it’s still sharp.

It glides over you with ease
Leaving nothing but a crimson trail
Your eyelids flutter close when Death suddenly whispers:
"Gotcha."