I will not be a part of my own death. When the guards come, and the priest, all somber eyes and grim, look hard into their eyes. Look hard enough to find either the pain, guilt at what they do, or the joy because they are murderers too cowardly for law-breaking. Look deep enough to find which and challenge it. Punch, and gouge, and bite, and fight and fight more.
Death is no quiet lover for open-armed acceptance.
Death is the enemy, and those who seek to help you find it are not your friends. Fight them hard enough so that the journalist, luckless witness to your execution, will notice the struggle and be sick to her stomach. Make her feel compelled to write how you struggled for life and the state took it from you. Make the doctor at his needle go home and puke. Make the warden resign, horrified at what he's done.