Death

I do not fear death,
Death fears me.
It fears the day that it will meet me at those gates,
Those flaming gates of hell.

Death is in the palm of my hand.
I can manipulate it to my will,
The timing,
The reason,

It could all easily be my choice.
With a bottle of pills,
Or a rope,
Tied in a noose.

Death is mine and mine only,
I will not yet manipulate death,
Though I can not say for certain about the future.
I will refrain for now,
Waiting until things get bad enough that they decide I need to leave for the hospital once more.

I will perfect myself in death,
Ceasing to exist.
I will be happy,
To be,

Nothing.