Death - Something new

I have been writing this for about two days but it is still a rough draft, idea. I don't really know what I'm doing with it but my writing needs some focus. Maybe I'll do something with death, some kind of creative non-fiction memoir from my perspective after death. I don't know. We'll see. Ideas ideas. Please let me know what you think, I desperately need criticism.

Death, it seems is everywhere lately whispering its chilling breath into the ears of the most undeserving. I looked out of the car window at the clouds, which pulled apart slowly like cotton candy, wishing to stick together still. Liz had just texted me asking about her outfit for the viewing. She worried if pants or a dress were appropriate and which sweater would go best with it and if it was alright that she felt ignored by her boyfriend who’s brother had just died. Before I could answer she had texted another question. Pants, dark purple sweater, and no.
I have become the go-to person for death. Sometimes I feel like I reek of black clothing and somber thoughts. All my life there has been a cloud of depth surrounding me. It hides all the parts you know are there but you don’t really want to know are there. Hides them in plain sight, you know the strange dark places exist because the cloud is there to cover them. I don’t put up walls but instead a steam of intimidating sobering self that seeps into little places and cracks open your curiosity and right when it’s too late you are intrigued and want to help. The thing is, me and the cloud got it covered. We’re all good, at least we want to be and I know you want to help but I’m not going to let you. I never understood what it was about those parts of me that were so interesting to other people and men in particular. There’s something about darkness, something about hidden secrets that will probably never come out unless your cheek has lines in it from laying on my pillow all night and it is late in the afternoon and we are still under the covers while it rains outside. And even then I will try to hide my dark places.
Death acts the same way, hides right there in plain sight and lingers long enough for us to curiously prod it into some kind of submission but it never gives in. Hiding all its dark places in whimsy and clouds and brighter places, but we know better. The covered up spots make death more intriguing and we want to dig our hands deep into the sand of it all and discover there’s water under there. But the sand keeps sliding back down into the hole. We’ll never make it all the way to China like we tried when we were five on the beach in Florida. We weren’t even on the right degrees of longitude but it didn’t matter. We kept trying and deep in there somewhere we realized looking for it wasn’t going to help. Looking for the reasons why and how and what to do when death slides its way into our lives and takes up residence like a stranger who sits at the kitchen table every morning and stares while we prepare the coffee will result in longer stares. Death will beat us, wear us down until we choose to not look anymore, choose to stop paying attention.
When you stop prodding me and curiously attempting to discover what I have hidden under my skin, what I have embedded so deep into my heart that you have to crack it open like an egg to see it slide out like the yolk, then I will show you. Maybe. Death and I like to see what you’ve got. Prove your worthiness. We need to know that you can handle it before we show you what there is in the dark places.