The Body Unmade Where a Mind Once Was

I dream in collapses—
glass tumbled from some forgotten hand,
a body kissing the aftertaste of metal,
the way an ocean takes back what it once spat out.

I think of drowning first:
how lungs turn selfish in the absence of air,
how water is kinder than gravity,
how the last thing seen is light unraveling like silk,
how the weight vanishes before the mind does.

The body learns to stop fighting
before the brain realizes it has lost.

Then, the building.
The moment between decision and descent,
feet on the ledge, wind curling around the ribs.
What is it to freefall?
To surrender height, to feel the body pulled into orbit—
not upward, not outward, just down.
Bones will not survive this.
Skin will rupture, the impact will be absolute.
The brain will slosh against the skull,
twist in its cage, the body flattening against pavement,
blood bursting outward like ink from a shattered pen.
A slow-motion collapse, but only for the watchers.
For me, there will be only air, then nothing.

Then, the train.
Steel unyielding, momentum impersonal.
The tracks are a hymn to inevitability.
Bones know before the brain does,
a fleeting recognition in the marrow:
I was not made to stop this.
The wind does not hesitate,
does not care to whisper warnings.
Impact does not feel like impact—it feels like being erased.
Bones shatter first, splintering into weapons against soft tissue.
Organs rupture like fruit under a boot,
the skull cracks open in a bloom of red and grey,
neural pathways sever before pain can even register.
The body, reduced to pulp and scatter,
leaves only echoes in metal and air.

Then, the pills.
Measured mercy in the palm of a shaking hand.
A quiet undoing, a slow dissolve,
the world blurring at its edges.
The body an hourglass
spilling time in secret.
The seconds stretch, distort,
each breath a question of permanence.

Then, the gun.
A thought so quick it does not linger.
No poetry here, just a flash,
a bloom of silence where a mind once was.
Grey matter, soft and spongy,
gives way in milliseconds,
a bullet carving its own obituary
through the circuits that once made me.
Neurons rupture, memories fragment,
a life condensed into red mist,
gone before the nerves even scream.

But then—
a hand on my shoulder.
A voice dragging me backward.
A whisper not of salvation,
but of waiting. Just waiting.

The fantasies splinter, fall to dust.
I remain, incomplete, unfinished.
Still dreaming, still unraveling.
The sentences collapse mid-thought.
The mind stutters, chokes on its own echoes.
I wait for the words to make sense again,
for time to remember how to move forward.
For something—anything—to make me stay.