Yama, Hades, Thanatos, Anubis,
Mictlantecuhtli, Hel, King Yan, Azrael—
all of these gods I know not. But Ikú?
Ikú I know.

Ikú is not a gentle visitor.
She is not the quiet hand on the shoulder,
not the lullaby whispering, It is time.
She is not the silver-eyed guide leading the lost home.
No.
She is a thief who breaks the door before knocking.
She is a cruel artist, sculpting suffering with slow,
meticulous hands.

Ikú looked me in the eye and took from me.
Not in an instant, not with a merciful snap of the fingers,
but in bits, in pieces, in agonizing fractions,
stretching the pain so thin it became the air we breathed.
Made me say every other goodbye except the last.
They say death is kind.
That she comes smiling,
offering promises of reunion and rest.
That she is a friend.
But I have seen her true face.

I have seen her linger at the edge of a bed,
watching a man drown in his own body,
gasping for an end that would not come.
I have heard her make a mockery of prayer,
turning every whispered plea into another cruel delay.
I have watched her teach a man to beg,
to trade his dignity for relief,
and only then — only then —
does she come in grand style, draped in shadow,
pretending she was merciful all along.

Prideful wretch. Ruthless collector.
She does not take, she erases.
Leaves a hole so vast, so consuming,
that even time dares not tread too close.

And now, she has returned.
Again, she reaches for another piece of me.
Again, she asks for my suffering in advance.
But what do we say to the god of death?
Not today.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Ariv Gupta on Unsplash