Fantasies of Death

Am I the only one who thinks about this, Idk — different fantasies about my death unfurl like night maps. I really do have different scenarios about me being dead, small rehearsals played behind my eyes. When I sit the first thing I think about — I'm gonna die like this, It would be fun that way, I tell myself and half-believe the script. But sometimes it grows heavy, thick as a coat I cannot fold, and the world presses in where softness used to be. From bridges the thought slides easily into me — a whisper of falling, ceiling fans turn slow questions above my head. I imagine how heart attack feels, the sudden hush, the surprise of quiet, cataloguing endings like a child collecting shells on the shore. Different death wishes line up — odd, rude, intimate and I keep asking: am I normal, or is it just my brain singing strange songs? Still, in the small bright minutes between, I breathe and I find a shape of wanting something stubborn and alive that refuses the last line.