Poems & Musings,  Writing

The Diner of Your Life

If anything is to eat me alive

Let it not be anger

Or fear

Or envy

Or doubt.

Let it not march across my face like wrinkles will,

Leeching me away like time never can.

Let love eat me alive instead

Let me breathe


And feel

Knowing that’s always been enough.

An audience of thousands or an audience of one,

When it’s time to pay the bill, it will only be me,

Standing by the register,

Handing money to the Reaper.

Maybe he’ll say, “Was it a good meal? Did you like your time here?”

I’ll reply,

“It was the fucking best.

It was my life.”

Sara Myriad


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