Debt of Life, Debt of Death

I was born owing something
no one explained.
First breath?
Put it on the tab.
First cry?
Interest accrued immediately.

Life hands you a receipt you never asked for
and calls it a gift.
Food, love, laughter, loss—
all borrowed.
All keeping score.

Every heartbeat is a loan extension.
Every sunrise says,
You still paying this back, champ.

We spend years pretending we’re rich in time,
burning hours like counterfeit bills,
until grief audits us without warning
and suddenly we’re counting moments
like loose change on the floor.

Death isn’t cruel.
Death is patient.
A quiet collector leaning in the doorway,
arms crossed,
watching you live loud
on borrowed breath.

It doesn’t rush you.
It lets you fall in love.
Lets you build things.
Lets you believe you’re winning.
That’s the kindness—and the trick.

Some pay their debt in pain.
Some in service.
Some in silence.
Some in leaving the world
a little less broken than they found it.

And some—
some run up the balance so high
that when Death finally knocks,
it doesn’t take them angry.

It takes them gentle.
Like,
You did enough.
We’re even now.

So live like the bill is real.
Love like interest is brutal.
Tell the truth before it compounds.

Because life always collects—
and death never forgets.

—LR 🩶

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

R̶e̶d̶ Green Flags

Everyone warns you about the monsters,   but no one prepares you   for the gentleness that feels like a trap.   The patience.   The steadiness.   The way someone’s kindness   can feel like a foreign language   you were never taught to speak.   Green flags are dangerous   when you’ve lived your life   memorizing storms.   You start waiting for the lightning,   the shift in the air,   the inevitable collapse —   because peace feels suspicious   when chaos raised you.   Sometimes the safest person you meet   is the one who terrifies you the most,   because they don’t flinch   when you show them your fractures.   They don’t weaponize your softness.   They don’t ask you to shrink   to fit inside their comfort.   And suddenly you’re standing   in a field of...
Read more

The List No One Admits Exists

No one’s seen the full list, No one admits it’s real. But names disappear from conversations. Photos go missing. People are remembered… less. Not gone. Just… faded. As if something, somewhere, is editing reality with a careful hand— removing pieces that no longer fit. A teacher once swore one of her students vanished mid-semester. No records. No desk. No memory from anyone else. But she remembered the name. Wrote it down. Kept it hidden. Weeks later, the paper was blank. Except for one small mark in the corner— A symbol she didn’t draw. A quiet acknowledgment: Handled. -LR 🖤
Read more

Who Prays For Satan?

Who prays for Satan   when the fire goes out   and the throne of ash   feels too heavy to sit on? Who prays for the one   everyone curses   but no one listens to—   the one who carries the blame   so the rest of us   don’t have to? Who prays for the fallen thing   that wasn’t born wicked,   just tired,   just angry,   just unheard? Who prays for the creature   who holds the world’s shadows   so we can pretend   we’re made of light? Who prays for the exile   when the silence gets loud,   when the crown of thorns   starts to feel like a noose,   when even the darkness   turns its face away? Who prays for the one   who was never allowed   to be forgiven? Maybe no one. Maybe that’s the tragedy. Maybe that’s why the flames burn—   not for punishment,   but...
Read more