a bell from the reaper: etiquette for parting ways

death came knocking on my door last afternoon, so i invited him in for tea.

an anxious girl with bleeding cuticles, and restless eyes. a moon hanging from one ear, a star from the other. a dolphin, oval locket, and mary are strung along my neck. a black bra strap, a broken belt loop.

a ceramic teapot with floral detailing, a matching milk jug, two cups and saucers (a gift to five-year-old-me). a chai?—sticky not powder, enjoyed on a swinging chair in the backyard. the humidity mirrors the spiced tea, sweat beading on the nape of my neck, but death has a cooling prescence so i will not dream of lakes.

we do not speak. i sit curled up but death's cloak drapes along the seat following his figure, if i touched him i'm sure i could trace out the silhouette of a body. doe eyed looking up, not unlike me at all, but i cannot see whats past the void in his hood—there's nothing but inaudible mumbles.

tip-tap-tip-tap-tip-tap my nails on the stained glass, i avoid his gaze and my chai. biscoff?—allow yourself to be greedy, salivate for manmade goods. the sweetness clings to morning dew and i will lay in bed past midday.

my fringe is too short, it sticks to my forehead, not long enough to touch overplucked brows. freckles on my nose that you noticed far too late (they were always there).

death stayed the night, the first slumber party i've hosted since i was eleven. a patchwork pillow case, a butter yellow duvet, polka dot sheets—a matress on the floor, i do not share beds with strangers anymore. i itch my fingertips, maybe the print will peel away, i don't like sleeping in silence.

he left early the next morning, leaving a tiny bell as a gift—i'll ring it when i need him back, next time i will leave with him for sure.