I lay on a hard mattress curled in the foetal position,

wrapped in a chrysalis of darkness.

A fancy metaphor could not explain the meaning of life,

it had simply become irrelevant.

I had become so skinny that my skin was pulled

guitar string taut over aching bones,

that doctors had threatened to hospitalise me.

But now, allergic to life, my skin peeled at the thought of being.

I lay wishing myself into the bliss of non-existence.

I wanted to make out with Death, and have him suck out

every last trace of air from collapsing lungs.

I whispered a small prayer of solace under my breath to God,

to someone that would listen.

The next morning, I woke to the gentle caress of

sunlight on my cheek, and a feverish hunger.