Abecedarian on Ways I Would Rather Not Die

Adrift, at sea; in water higher than my chin, I'd
      break down because I never learned to swim.
Call me a wimp, but I get itchy looking at caterpillars; 
      don't think it's OK to be tattooed in hives.
Every time I think about dying, I pray: immediate and
      fast, please— not drawn out over months, years even. 
Get me the equivalent of a Concorde, London to New York; or
      half the time for sound to travel through a medium. 
Incomprehensible, but some have been impaled by falling icicles.  
      Jealousy's pinch, preceding fatal complication.
Lightning victim, hair on fire beside a gutted tree.   
      Midway through a trip, falling off a cliff from 
nonsense ideas for selfies. (Stand in front of a train?
      Or have a freak accident, slipping and falling on
pans of upturned knives in an open dishwasher?) 
      Quietly napping on the couch, then have a meteorite  
slam through the roof and hit you. All manner of
      turbulence breaking open in our lives,
undoing our sense of safety. I'd rather not be choked by
      vines or swallowed whole by a reticulated python,
walloped then skewered by a swordfish. I'd rather not be
      xenophobically targeted, nor sucked into the   
yaw of a meat grinder. I'd rather not choke on a mouthful of 
      zabaglione, its custardy froth laced with Marsala.