Rogue Reaper

I wasn’t hired by heaven
or trained by hell.
No orientation packet.
No scythe warranty.
Just a quiet understanding with the dark—
walk softly, leave truth behind.

I don’t reap the innocent.
I reap the tired.
The ones who stayed too long in rooms
that kept stealing their oxygen.
The ones who smiled until their teeth hurt
and called it strength.

They say I’m a monster
because I don’t follow the rules—
because I cut chains instead of throats,
because I escort souls out of burning houses
instead of watching them earn their ashes.

I don’t wear black.
I wear the color of last chances.
Of cracked halos and bruised courage.
Of people who survived things
that should’ve ended them
but didn’t.

Sometimes I sit at the edge of a bed
at 3 a.m.,
when grief is loud and God is on airplane mode,
and I whisper,
You’re allowed to rest now.

Not everyone wants saving.
Not everyone wants dying.
But everyone wants peace—
even if they pretend they don’t.

So call me rogue.
Call me broken.
Call me wrong.

I’ll still walk beside the forgotten,
still take the hands no one else will touch,
still bend the rules of the universe
for the ones who gave everything
and got nothing back.

I’m not the end.
I’m the mercy
that shows up
when the world forgets how.

—LR 🖤

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