My fantasies have become very strange, I disturb myself at least once a day.

I imagine, my helpless body sinking. Sinking down deeper into an unknown. A memory of the only breath that would last a lifetime. A lifetime two minutes long.

I go to the library to find peace of mind, to find myself in the pages of a medical journal.
On the pages will be blooms of hope in the names of tablets that can ease my worried mind.

The cold sludge will embrace me tightly. Covering my eyes so I can't see any of the pain anymore. Holding my limbs tight, to remind me that its always there. That deaths embrace is certain. That I will be at peace.

Papercuts cover my frantically searching hands, like warriors. They're fighting for my life, a war against myself. Cramming pages into my eyes and plugging my ears with facts. A Freudian overload, a desperate attempt to medicalise my state of mind.

The thick taste of salty sand fills my mouth, my breath gasps, my involuntary reflex to save my life. The silence comes, the voices fade away. Its bittersweet that my death brings my every fantasy.

They clatter as they hit the sink, prescribed nonsense designed to pull me into myself. Make me more compliant. Dig my own hole deeper. Make me easier for society to swallow, for you to deal with. My hands have finally saved me, poured away the mind-altering remedies. Showed me the only thing I ever needed was already part of me.