Dying

I wasn't that bad, she said
As she sipped on her drink.
Because nothing seemed to matter anymore.
Nothing was important to her . . .
Not even herself--
Whoever that was.
That ever-present and never-ending struggle
Had at least been appeased.
And the warm, soft, numbing could begin . . .
As the world looked prettier
And safer, and not cold and ugly . . .
She ordered another and smiled.
Not thinking of the tomorrows
That would have to be again softened.

Diana Sagarese