Death.
Most fear death.
Scared of the unknown, consumed with guilt for questioning their one true God on if there is such a thing as an afterlife.
Scared that they didn't do as much as they could of, should of; why didn't I go see nana more, donate more, be a better daughter?
Full of questions and full of regret.
I wish I could feel the regret, to feel the fear, to feel anything at all;
but I don't.
I imagine what it feels like as I lay in my stiff bed and listen to songs about lost loves and dreams of changing the world.
I used to have high hopes,
numerous ideas of how I can change the world and better it.
The abuse fueled it and gave those ideas the motivation they needed,
but the abuse is gone:
and so am I.
I no longer know what it's like to feel,
to want to be better and to strive for affection.
It's all gone mute, like the words of my mother who cries that I'm no longer the daughter she once had
just silence.
And I have no urge to fix it.
Most fear death
but I look forward to it.
The point of life is to live and I haven't lived in a while
so death, come on and beckon me.
Beckon me like a lost boat to a beaker of light.