Knocking at my door

Lying in bed.
Under my sheets, even though they make me cold.
Blanket up to my nose, my hands grasp the top of the blanket'
White knuckles clenched.
It's getting darker and darker
And the barbed wire is getting tighter and tighter.

My feet are frozen, and probably blue.
but I'm too scared to look at them,
because they are so far away,
at the end of my bed, dangling off my mattress.
The draft whispers at my mouth and nose and ears
and ruffles my hair.

Barbed wire tight and cutting.

It's just me and death,
and he looks me in the eye,

well I don't know because of the hood,
but I pretend.
Because it feels like razor wire now.
Tight and cutting.
Blood.

it must be time, I think.

"I'm scared."
Death says 
"Me too."
"Why are you scared?"
"Because anything you are scared of, will always be just as scared as you are."

Razor wire, wrapped around my neck.
tight and cutting.

It's even darker than before now.
which up until this very second of my life thought was impossible.
It's colder now too.
and my feet are so far away, and
The door is further than my feet.
Which I also thought was impossible.
I know I can't leave,
because my legs are like a slow computer
jerky and slow.

It's foggy in my room, and it's funny,
because I don't remember buying the fog machine.
Death gets closer to my bed.

Death is the only thing that seems in perspective.

Death smells like roses.

which I find strange,
because it's death we're talking about here.

But then again, 

a rose will still smell like a rose,

long after it has wilted.