Death is trapped within your bones. That is what you were told. Came to dwell there by a glitch in your blood and your red cells became many, tiny scythes or sickles waiting to pluck you off the tree of life. One day, you asked if death wasn’t a thing trapped in the bones of all men. Yes, but for you, it is an early bird. So you learnt to count your days with each throbbing pain, as these scythes squeezed and tore through vessels. You even counted on days when a seeming peace lived under your skin.