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With cold skeleton fingers

Death knocked at the door of Elizabeth.

It was her time

And she wasn’t ready.

She had expected

Death to be kind to her and allow her a slow, predictable death

But Death doesn’t pander to the wishes of children

Who are born in unlucky homes.

Death responds to accident and peril

As easily as cancer and dementia.

Elizabeth was born in a home

That ruled with fists

And broke things in fits and starts,

Bones and plates

It didn’t matter.

She was the price

She paid

For defending her mother

When her father

Was out to kill.

She stood in front of her mother

And her father struck

But the blow didn’t land with as much ferocity

Because it was not intended for her.

Elizabeth threw him off

And she was unlucky once again,

Because Death turned away from her door,

Forcing her to continue living with bruises

And fear.