I'm ready for death.

I’ve been rehearsing my exit in the silence between heartbeats, counting the cracks in the ceiling like they’re roads leading me out of here. Don’t tell me about hope. Hope is a cruel magician— pulls light out of a hat, then rips it away when you reach for it. I’ve choked on that illusion enough times to know it tastes like ash. My bones are prisons, my skin is a coffin in progress. Every night I lay down, I wonder if sleep will finally be generous enough to forget to wake me. People say death is scary. But I’ve seen scarier things— the face in the mirror that begs for release, the laughter of others when my throat is filled with screams, the weight of a soul dragged across broken glass just to prove it’s still alive. So no—death does not frighten me. Death is the only promise that never lies. It’s the only hand that hasn’t slapped me down. It’s the only voice that doesn’t demand apologies. When it comes— I won’t run, I won’t plead. I’ll spread my arms wide like a soldier marching home. I’ll step into the dark with cracked lips whispering, finally… Because I’m not living anymore. I’m only surviving. And I’m ready— ready for the silence, ready for the shadows, ready for death to cradle