Every evening I sip on ice water and ecstasy as my head spins from an overdose of air in my lungs

and I roll out my teal yoga mat.

It is named death bed because I know damn well that the indents from kneeling over a toilet bowl have seen me drifting towards the light a time or two.

The memory foam casket I set down every night to pardon the blow of bony elbows on carpet remembers the blood stains on my lips

from refusing water for days.

Dehydration set in and the floor transformed into a spinning sea of precious china before I could get my sea legs.

Ebony crept into the corners of my vision,

eyes searing in my skull until I was burned to the ground.

Now I lay here on my yoga mat, gazing at the suicide-colored ceiling,

sea-foam green cradling what's left of my ashes as I drift in and out of consciousness.

My death bed has been yearning for the day when I eat my words

swirling them around my tongue,

twirling, tasting the dirt from precisely six feet below me.

Maybe if I decide I don't want to swallow the idea of life,

I will beat around the bush until I'm out of breath.

I will starve to death.