Death

I finally feel alive, which is why all I can think about anymore is dying. I almost didn't leave the house because my postcard of that eerie self-portrait of Edvard Munch fell off the wall and was sitting on my bed, staring at me. I don't want to drive because of that dream one of my exes had about me dying in a horrible car crash, my bracelets melting into my skin, my body twisted and crumpled. I'm beginning to realize how easily a bullet passes through a skull, cracking like an eggshell, gliding through the brain like the electrical jelly that it is. I've finally got so many things to live for: writing and reading and eating banana crepes with my roommates with the sun streaming in through all the windows of our fucking beautiful house, falling asleep to your voice and having it sink into my psyche. Everything's so amazing, why do I have to feel like death is all around me now?