Primum Non Nocere

Not too long ago, I posted on Twitter (which is linked to my Facebook), and I asked whether fighting for mental health, at the cost of your own mental health, was worth it.

I received a plethora of responses. As always I wasn’t able to respond to all of them, but I found each of them equally valuable, and I’d like to share a few below.

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Basically, some suggested that it is worth it, because everything you do comes with an associated cost to your mental health. Most of my friends, however, strongly felt that it was not worth it. That nothing was worth sacrificing your own mental health for.

Now, there is a reason I put up this post when I did, and there is a reason that post features in this article. But before I get to that, I want to briefly touch upon the two sides that came forward in that thread.

My friend who suggested that since everything has an associated mental cost, it is worth it, was right in his own manner. Everything you do, and anything you intend on doing that you hope will be disruptive, definitely comes with a lot of baggage: sleepless nights, stressed out existence, severe anxiety, the continuous anticipation of failure, bursts of anger and impatience, and so on and so forth. There is a reason such ventures are literally categorized into something called the Suicide Quadrant.


However, my own leaning was always with the friends who said that it’s not worth it. It just seemed intuitive to not sacrifice your own mental health for any cause, especially if it was to do with mental health itself. One friend’s comment about not being able to pour from an empty cup really got through to me.

But, for some reason, I wasn’t ready to accept that, or to resign myself to knowing that I couldn’t do it. So, I chose to not accept their advice (though I doubt they knew when they were commenting that I was actively looking for advice), and went, instead, with the former; this I find ironic in hindsight, because I remember reading that friend’s comment and almost laughing it off instantly.

Why did I do that?


I ran into a friend at a mutual friend’s wedding. Okay, fine. We’re acquaintances, but Facebook thinks we’re friends. We hadn’t met or spoken in ages, but she had heard through another mutual friend that I was working for a mental health startup. And I will never forget what she said to me:

“It’s so great that you’re doing this! And it seems like such a natural progression as well, because you’re always writing about mental health and sharing things about it. But I’m so happy that you’re doing this — not just talking the talk, but actually walking the walk!”

And that was enough to pump me to keep going.

I finally did last month (March) what I had been thinking about since December — I resigned. I left my post of ‘Chief Operating Officer’ at a ‘multidisciplinary therapy center’.

And it was, by far, one of the toughest calls I’ve had to make.

What happened?

Well, that’s an interesting story, but that’s not really the story for this article. But I’ll sum it up.

What it was at the end of the day was a job. And I lost sight of that. I took it on as something bigger, something greater, something that I could be proud to be associated with and ‘own’. And in words, I was motivated towards the same by my employer — I was the ‘COO’ after all. But in reality? It was a glorified secretarial position.

To add to that? My employer believed very firmly in the number of years you have been alive as being a large (if not sole) determinant of your capabilities, and since I’m a quarter-century old, I was constantly reminded of that. To the point that I now find myself constantly wondering if I even know anything, or if I’m even worth anything, or if I can even effect any good, because, after all, I’m only 25.

I found myself losing my self-confidence. Rapidly. And it would oscillate between having to pretend as if I was in control, to retreating almost instantly to a head-down, back-hunched secretarial role.

[I feel I need to clarify something. I am in no way, shape or form trying to show down any secretarial position whatsoever — any position of work that allows for an honest wage is of the utmost respect as far as I am concerned. What I am commenting on is the dissonance between words that were being spoken and actions that were being carried out.]

Why this post?

The point of this post is not to point fingers at any specific person or place. It is to highlight a trend, and a problematic one at that. Having been on the ‘inside’ of the mental health services provision ‘industry’ I have seen some things I wish I had not seen. Of course it did not help that my employer was also my psychiatrist — a dual-relationship that a number of my friends have criticized me for having established in the first place, but one that I had established in the good faith (or naiveté as my friend put it) that my psychiatrist would know what my mental health concerns are and the resultant work environment would be one where my mental health needs would be respected, and the environment would be conducive to my stability and growth.

Needless to say I was terribly disappointed.

From the get-go, I was told one thing: to not tell people that I am under his care, and to not tell people that I am on medication. And upon my inquiring why that was the case (for I assumed it would be nothing short of an inspiration story to tell people that you could be a fully-functioning human being whilst being on treatment for your mental health), I was told that people do not understand and that’s just how society is.

I suppose I’m sick of the silence now.

And so this post is me doing what I have been trying to do since 2015: raise awareness.

Getting to the Point

I find it paradoxical that a center established for the well-being of the community re their mental health, does not cater for the mental health of its own employees.

The reason is simple: you need to question the motivation behind what you’re doing. It’s as Simon Sinek puts it: start with why.

Source: Pinterest

And when your why is a little more than making money, regardless of how you try and wrap it up and put it out there, it begins to show. Again. I am not saying (for the sake of this article at least) that there is anything wrong with wanting to make money. If you are a professional who is good at his job, then you have a right to receive remuneration for your services that you have been honing for years through study, practice and experience.

What is wrong is trying to cut costs through Pharma-sponsored printing, simply because you feel they owe you. Isn’t that part of the problem? It’s highly likely that the professional does not indulge in wrongfully advantaging one pharmaceutical company over another, but it’s something that does not sit well with me. To read about this relationship is one thing, and to see it happening is altogether another.

The physician-pharma nexus is just one example of an overall dysfunctional healthcare system crippled by malpractices. There is no authority where patients can take their complaints. Against the background of lack of accountability in the system, the onus on physicians to conduct themselves ethically becomes paramount. Doctors have an enormous responsibility to exercise their powers with integrity. Jung (2002) writes “once you have sold your soul, it can be a hard item to retrieve”.

What is wrong is for you to be a mental health professional, and to hold absolutely no empathy or regard for other people. When a very close friend’s grandmother (who, perchance, had also been his client) passed away, his response, a little while later, was to inquire whether the family was feeling happy and relieved that she had passed on.

Yes. I understand practicality is important. But is it important enough to become callous towards all emotions?

And then, it is problematic when you treat someone who has been giving you 14 hours a day, 7 days a week, like absolute crap on the opening day, simply for being 10 minutes late. It’s one thing to be told that you’re late and that it shouldn’t happen again. It’s another thing to have to bear a grown man’s passive-aggression.

My version of the opening day at the center? A break-down in front of my boss. And once the dam broke, the waterworks flowed for at least 10 minutes before only quieting down.

Sounds exactly like a dream job… 

But perhaps the biggest problem, still, is not recognizing or catering for the mental health needs of your own employees.

The work timings stretched from nine to nine; and that’s not nine to nine effectively, even though it’s nine to five on paper. It’s nine to nine on paper, and nine to ten effectively. When I pointed out that it was getting too much for me, I was simply told that I should aim to wrap up at nine sharp and leave. Or that we might figure out a way in which I could take off a couple of hours during the day.

I didn’t realize it then, but I find it ironic now, considering that the same person, a year back, wrote this prescription for my previous employer:

SJ Prescription
“Unable to cope with stress at work, he needs to reduce his working hours.”

At that point, my work hours were nine to five…

But the final nail in the coffin was the surprising realization that a mental health professional of his standing could not understand how debilitating anxiety could be. When, after working non-stop, I took a sick leave for a day after a month of the opening, which is after almost five months of me working with him, and then extended it to two days, I was greeted with the following message:

SJ Messages

[When I eventually did resign (which was perhaps later the same day, or the very next day) I brought this up, and he still stuck to his guns. “I wasn’t expecting an hour-long conversation,” he said. “You could just call and tell me you’re not coming.” “BUT I DIDN’T WANT TO TALK TO ANYONE!” I almost yelled out in response.]

This of course is only my story.

So what?

So nothing.

I am not here trying to indict someone in particular or to try and blame someone else for my resignation. That is NOT my intention, and never will be: it was an active choice that I made, and I will stick by it.

The point of me writing this post is perhaps more cathartis than anything else. When you feel let down by someone you deeply trust, you hold faith in, and with whom you have been emotionally vulnerable, it hurts. Like a fly-bat made out of bricks just came and hit your body’s anterior with swatting force.

Everyone keeps asking me why I left (what could only seem from the outset to be an inspirational story of me) pursuing my passion and doing my bit to help people and their mental health issues and finally working towards what I keep talking about. And I never have a decent answer. Even though I know.

Because it’s hard to reconcile. And it’s tough to come to terms with.

But even if I withdraw myself completely from the situation, and view it as someone who has been fighting for mental health awareness and has been advocating for the same since 2015, I find myself feeling sad, despondent, and helpless if this is the state of affairs in the field.

Because this is just one story. And within that story, this is just my narrative. There are hundreds of such stories out there. But we’ll never know. Because we are on the outside.

And so I’ll leave you with this one simple question:

Source: Pinterest



The title of this article is Latin for, “First, do no harm.” The same principle also forms part of the Hippocratic Oath.






It’s back.

Somebody hand me a quick fix. Something. Anything. Something I can put under my tongue, close my eyes, and open them to find that everything is perfectly fine.

Or maybe just a quick fix that comes with a trigger. Maybe I don’t have to open my eyes ex-post-facto.


It won’t respond to me.

It just worsens. Like a snake wrapping itself around my neck, and slithering its way up my back and up my neck. Tightening its grip, slowly, but surely.

I can’t breathe.

And my heart is racing. A hummingbird’s wings would have nothing on my heart. It’s past the point of no return. It’s just going to thump-thump-thump its way out of the vessels that hold it in place, and hold it back. And it’s going to thump-thump-thump right out of their grasp and, suddenly greeted by gravity, fall down into the pit of my stomach. Maybe a part of it has already fallen off, and is already in my stomach. Because I can feel the palpitations. I can feel the something fluttering there. But it’s not butterflies. This has weight. This has conscious weight. It’s there. I can feel it. Like a bit of my heart broke off, in all its messy fleshy nature, and is now writhing in my stomach, like a lizard’s tail after it’s been chopped off.

Oh. You think that’s disgusting? You’re revolted by it?

How about trying to sleep and waking up but an hour later to find yourself heaving and panting and covered in sweat–your shirt so wet you literally have to get up and go wring the water out of it–waking up in the morning to find salt stains against the navy blue background?

How about standing in front of people you know — people you’re familiar with — and not being able to say anything? Standing there. Silent. Mute. Seemingly still. But you’re not still. You might be frozen stiff on the outside, but everything inside of you is screaming. It’s chaotic. It’s everywhere. It’s all over the place.


EVERYTHING IS SCREAMING. But you stand there.


How you wish your heart would be right now.

So you plug your ears and you put on one song, just one, on repeat, on loop, continuously playing, over and over and over again. Because you need that familiarity. Because you need that sense of knowing what’s going to happen. Because you need that predictability. And because everything on the outside is scary. And dangerous. Even the birds chirping can set you off.

They’re always so damned happy.

And if you talk to someone about this, they’re going to dismiss it. Oh they’re going to dismiss it.

And they’re going to tell you it’s all in your head.

And they’re going to tell you you’re being stupid.

But you know it’s real.

‘IT’S REAL!’ you try screaming out; but nothing rises above your insides already screaming inside of you.

Your soul is shaking. You’re not sure how you know this, but you do. It’s quivering, in fear. It’s cowering, and so are you. In your mind, you are already in fetal position, and you are awaiting the blow — the blow that never comes. 

You lie down. But you can hear your damned heart. You can hear it yelping, like an over-active dog, over the sound of the music playing in your ears. You can hear it so loud.

You just wish it would stop.


And this is why you did not want it back.

Why did you come back?



I have nothing more to give to you. I’m tired. I’m exhausted. I’m spent.

And I have nothing more to give to you.

I have nothing more to give to you.

I have nothing more to give.

Use Protection

Oh Mother

There is something that protrudes

It is rude and unsightly

And it can no longer be ignored

Can’t I take it off Mother

And put it to one side

If doing so makes her feel safer

So that she can be at peace

And find the resolve to see me

With those very same eyes

That have seen other beings

With the same deformity

Be vile beasts and tell heinous lies

Then know that I shall put it away

And hide it

And bury it

Out of sight, out of mind

Cut off from me

Like the fruit from a branch

Plucked and peeled

Ready to be planted

Watered like a seed


This was not a seed

And now no more of it shall grow

No more of it shall come forth

And think of harming her anymore

F. this siht

Screw it.
Screw life.

Fuck this country.
Fuck the government.
Fuck these rat-ass bastards who don’t give a shit about us.

Fuck this life.
Fuck our jobs.
Fuck the economy.
Fuck our line managers and their insecurities.
Fuck the men in this world who make women insecure because of their own insecurities.
Fuck the women in this world who only know ’empowerment’ to be stripping naked or sleeping around.

Fuck the friends who stab you in the back, then smile at you from the front, and embrace you with arms wide open, only to twist the dagger in your back so that the bleeding doesn’t stop.
Fuck the friends who leave you in your hardest moments, so that you don’t ever feel safe with anyone ever again.
Fuck the people who make promises to you and never keep them, who tell you something and spend so much time ensuring it, and then… just leave you in the dark, so that you can never trust again, never believe anyone again, and never believe you’re worth it.

Fuck the artists and the musicians, who’ve sold their souls to become sell-outs and not worry about their art anymore.
Fuck the educationists who think that good schooling is about making money, and not about quality education.
Fuck the teachers who don’t know what to teach or how to teach it.
Fuck the medical sector and their exploitation of the weak and sick and the needy and those in pain, because who gives a fuck about their money when they’re sick, and they know that and they give a fuck about your money, so FUCK them twice over.

Fuck student societies and their fucking politics and their fucking nonsensical bullshit and their faltered grandiose notions about changing the world when their real agenda items are just getting fucking wasted.

Fuck these elitist bastards who think they’re all that just because they were born with a golden spoon in their mouth and being rich is all they’ve ever known.

Fuck the people who disguise themselves as beggars and rip you off, or disguise themselves as beggars and then kidnap little children and drug them, or who don’t need money but just need the regular hit of heroin because that’s all they fucking know.

Fuck the law enforcement people who take bribes and are corrupt and don’t give a shit about justice but only about their own self interests.
Fuck the police, who can’t watch out for the bad guys because clearly they can’t even watch out for their weight.
Fuck the politicians and the media, who divide our nation into twos and threes and fours and millions only to get them to fight against each other, so that they can profit off of their misery.

Fuck the big corporations and their marketing gimmicks and their lack of social responsibility and Fuck the charitable who do charity just because they want to show off how much money they’re giving away or who want pictures with desolate souls because they want to appear as angels.

Fuck the motherfuckers who think that rape is okay, that molestation is fine and that harassment is just how it should be. Fuck them to hell and then beyond, into the devil’s own personal fucking pit of fire and I hope the fire rapes, molests and harasses them and they then understand what that feels like.

Fuck the academics who don’t do research for objective reasons, but for an agenda, for the person who pays them the most – the highest bidder; fuck their research and fuck their arguments. Fuck the lawyers who defend these sick, twisted and evil bastards. Fuck the lawyers who don’t understand the lives they are ripping apart, and the souls they are crushing and the menace they are letting go free.

Fuck the doctors who can’t do their own fucking jobs and so come out on the streets in protest (against a government too busy in its own protests), so that the hospitals are empty and there is no one in the emergency to save the little girl and heal her, as she breathes her last in her mother’s arms.

Fuck the people who have an issue with saying FUCK, because fuck them, and fuck everyone who thinks that holding in frustration and releasing everything through passive aggression and diplomacy is how the world should function, and how every emotion should be hidden and objectivity and rationality should be the fucking endpoint of the world and the means to reach it too, even though they couldn’t be rational enough to discern between their biases and reality.

Fuck the people who think that just because you believe in happiness, you shall be happy, and that if you’re not happy that’s because your belief system isn’t good enough. Fuck the Maulvis and Priests and Rabbis and Pastors and everyone else who does the exact same thing but under the guise of religion.

Fuck the people who brainwash the little kids who trust them and look up to them and who want to grow up to be them some day, because they think the masters know religion and are close to God; fuck these sick minds who brainwash children into becoming radicals, and who brainwash masses and hordes and convince them to blow themselves up, only so that they can live a life of pleasure right here, right now – they’re just fucking fireworks to them.

Fuck the people who have poisoned our fruits and meat and vegetables by injecting hormones into it and making it grow faster, so that they can increase their production so that they can make more money. They don’t care how many people fall ill, or all the harmful effects of any of this, so long as they see green, so fuck them and their hormones.
Fuck hormones generally too.

Fuck the person who made nuclear bombs. Fuck the person who made drones and tanks and guns. Fuck the people who think war solves anything. Fuck the people who don’t see how we’ve been here before and who are so fucking adamant on making the same fucking stupid decisions all over again, just to fulfill their own fucking egos.

Fuck the two-faced people, who pretend to be one thing to your face and are another thing in your absence. Fuck the people who betray their friends to be friends with you, and then betray you to be friends with your enemies. Fuck them for ruining everyone’s lives for the sake of their own entertainment.

Fuck the materialistic culture, filled with materialistic things and objects and concepts. Fuck the replacement of ideals and ideas with shiny, glittery, new, handcrafted products, because they are the true asset you own, and not the fucking grey matter between your ears.

Fuck the aunties whose only job is to care about your marriage, and when you ask them who they have in mind, they show up with mugshots of their family members, or some random stranger they saw running in the park that morning. Fuck these aunties and their gossip sessions and fuck all the parents that put their children through hell for the sake of pseudo moralists such as these. And fuck the fucking culture of making everything about a son’s education and daughter’s marriage, as if the daughter doesn’t have an equal fucking right to good, quality, accessible education!

Fuck the system, the world, everything it now stands for, everything it has become and everything it is on the verge of becoming.

Fuck our generation and the “hope” they are and the “future” that they are and the “change” they are responsible for, because all this generation can fucking do is lay on their butts all day long feeling entitled to good jobs and money and cars and a raise and a better pay and more money and more facilities. Fuck them for thinking the world owes them shit.

Fuck the people who bully other people and who make fun of other people’s disabilities. Fuck the people for their apathy and their lack of empathy and their lack of understanding of how other people live their lives and for their lack of understanding regarding all the things that other people might be going through. Fuck the people who don’t understand, but fuck harder the people who don’t want to or feel they are not responsible for their fellow human beings or for contributing to effecting positive change in their communities.

Fuck the people who think the rules aren’t for them and that they’re above the law, that they can drive by and knock you off the road, that they can stop the traffic with an ambulance in its midst just so that they can pass and that they’re the ones whose lives are in danger when it’s their people who die every single time a bomb goes off. Fuck them and their hyper-inflated egos and their dehydrated, shriveled up minds.

Just. Fuck it. Fuck this shit.

Shipwrecked Treasure

A cat walks nimbly in the dark of night

Pitch black surroundings with reflective eyes

Deafening silence as the screams emerge

But die out within, quietly unheard


The perfect image of a shipwrecked treasure

As it washes up on the overcast shore

There is much more for you to notice

You are not who you were before


Rainbows and butterflies, leprechauns and fairies

Your belief system does not entertain

But the dying expression of a newborn child

As he yearns for his mother’s refrain


You seek the truth, wherever it is

And no matter how deep you must go

The result you are sure will be worth it

For knowledge does power hold


The reality of this life is upon all lost

Except for those who can truly see

You ask for a mark for those who notice

‘Tired eyes and half-remembered dreams’

Anxiously Awaiting

I wait. My internet is being a little slow.

There is a tick.

It turns out your internet might be slow as well.

It transfigures into a double-tick, and, almost immediately after, it turns blue.

You are online.

The message has been read.

I wait for your response – for your status to change from ‘online’ to ‘typing…’.

It does not.

You go offline.

I sit there staring at my phone’s screen waiting for you to come back online and respond. I haven’t asked you a particularly tricky question – just if you’d gotten a chance to read the article I sent you earlier in the week – and so I wonder why the response isn’t coming. It’s as simple as ‘Yes’ or ‘No’; if you want to be polite, you can lie and make up an excuse about why you haven’t read it or that you have read it and you liked it. Though I know it was a terrible piece of writing, if it can at all be called that.

You disappear and you don’t return.

This surely only means one thing: you hate me and you don’t wish to talk to me. But you’re too polite to say it to my face, so instead you’re choosing to just ignore me. Hoping that I’ll just stop messaging you and nagging you; hoping that I’ll eventually stop and leave you alone.

I will leave you alone. But not because I no longer want to be your friend or I no longer want to talk to you. I will leave you because I understand now that I am no longer worth it for you and you don’t wish to have me around in your life. I know now that I am just a burden, and I do not wish myself to be so. I do not wish to become the name you see on your phone and roll your eyes instinctively. I’m very scared it’s already too late.

The simple truth is I’m just a bad friend and I’ve messed it up. The simple truth is you never want to see my face again. The simple truth is I’m a liability and not someone you wish to be seen or associated with.

I understand.

I shall leave you be.

The phone rings.

You’ve read the article I sent you.

You think it’s pretty decent.

And you’re sorry you didn’t reply immediately – your mother had called you to scold you for not cleaning up your room.

But is that the truth? Or are you just making up convenient half-truths because you know that I’m fragile?

I’m not crazy. I promise. Not entirely anyway.

My adrenal glands work overtime. My fight, fright and flight responses never really fade out; the goosebumps never really go away; the hair on the back of my neck never really settles down.

Every now and then I have severe chest pain: I can’t breathe or move or function.It isn’t a searing pain. Rather it’s that blunt, heavy, dull pain that just doesn’t leave. It’s usually hours before it goes away.

This is what a heart attack must feel like,” I wonder to myself.

Most times, it just doesn’t dissipate until I fall asleep, worn out by the sensation that I am about to cry, albeit incapable of even a single teardrop finding its way out of my eyes and down my cheeks. The fluttering pain in my chest is so severe I just want to stab my heart with the first sharp instrument that appears in my sight, only to form an outlet for the pain to seep out. I quiver under the covers, hiding from the light or any other sign of life, hoping for the pain to just go away — what I wouldn’t give for the briefest of respites, to be able to breathe in normally once more.

The sound of the television, faint in the background, sounds like the battlecry of the Romans, about to charge towards me and trample me under the stampede of their horses’ hooves. I want to run in the opposite direction, but my feet have suddenly become of lead – anchors for a ship that wishes to just break away from the quay.

Do you know what would happen if a weathered small-sized boat were to try to pull away from the shore, while its anchor was still grounded? In between the ensuing tug of war, the boat would explosively disintegrate, with wooden shrapnel flying in all directions, and splinters launching outwards like darts being fired.

Would I rather be that boat?

I don’t have the energy to tug at anything.

I barely have the energy to hang on to the rope of life.

Everything is slipping away. From right in between my hands, I can see it slipping away. I have become a spectator in my own misery – how poetic.

There is this undeniable feeling of a chillingly cold steel surface being pressed against the back of my neck. The hammer is really cold. It is lifted up. I cringe, and I fold my body inwards towards my core. I know the hammer is about to come down on the back of my neck with such brutal force that I will black out from the pain. I know it’s about to come down.

Any second now, it will strike me and knock me down.

Any instant now, I shall see my own blood graffiti the floor below me.

It’s right there behind me.

It’s right there.

The blow is inevitable.

The blow is inevitable.

The blow is inevitable. 

The blow… it’s inevitable.

The blow… it’s coming.



Lucy Lucidity

It’s these brief moments of lucidity that make life worth living. Where every sound, every glint from a shiny surface, every sensation of abrasion, every single element combines together and flows straight into your soul.

It is those few seconds, where everything seems to come together: a Jenga stack before the game has commenced; the Tower of Babel before language becomes alien.

There are no drugs.

No literal smoke or mirrors.

It is the eye of the storm: calm yet loud; peaceful yet ferocious.

The clarity of standing on the edge of the cliff, knowing full well what is to follow, knowing full well that the memory of this very moment in and of itself will perish as well – vaporized to become part of the cloud cover that tries and fails to hide the scorching sun – is matched only by the sudden loss of bearing which finds itself in conflict with the acute awareness of your body plunging into nothingness.

This is the thrust.

This is the ‘kick‘ — that moment when your soul collides with your physical body and fuses to become one again.

But that fraction of a moment before you begin to rapidly sink? That instant that stretches in ethereal time and space over the span of your entire existence? That door to an alternate reality which you refuse to believe is a veracious reflection of your own life? When your soul deceives your mind and body and struggles so hard to betray, to escape, to be free?

That is the moment to live for.

Amidst the ghastly cacophony of sounds that no one else can hear clamoring about your mind while your eyelids droop lower and lower and you exhibit a deceptive outwardly appearance of serenity, you realize that you are finally alive.

Welcome, to Lucy Lucidity.

Who’s a Good Boy?

I have been left distraught.

Distracted so easily by this pain.

My life has become a perpetual state of suffering.

You would imagine I would get used to it by now – perhaps I have. Perhaps, that is the worst part of it all.

It is my masochistic friendship with this pain that pretends to be noble.

It is all a disguise.

I inflict more pain upon myself.

I just want to feel again. I just want to feel something.

I keep talking about this pain inside of me, except it’s a weighted, blunt expansion of the black mass in my chest. It pushes outwards in all directions. It is a force more than it is pain.

This force needs to stop its constant thrust – I have no energy to push back with.

I don’t collapse because it does not push me down.

It pushes out.

There’s a child inside my chest that can’t take the reality of this world anymore.

She just wants to come out. She is trying to propel open a hole in my chest, and escape. She tried to burn the hole – the heat inside is getting too much. It’s scorching me.

Her tiny hands are unbelievably strong. Like a newborn’s grip around her mother’s finger, she’s trying to climb out of my chest.

I don’t want her gone.

I know she’ll take my heart with her, like a bagpack swung over her shoulder by the aorta.

But the heat.

And the rage.

The anger makes me go blind.

I go blind with the anger.

I can no longer hear her screams.

Nothing makes sense anymore.

Everything is burning but I am calm.

Last night was different though. Last night I could not control it.

I stood against the car, taking a drag of my cigarette breaking down in whimpers, like a little bitch after being run over by a car.

But when he came by, I beat him up.

I was so angry, I would have killed him.

In that moment, I wanted to kill.


Other lives are valuable.

I made him cry.

Then I cried.

No wonder she said I emotionally abuse.

Because I feel too much and can’t make up my fucking mind.

Emotional expression is overrated.

But it is vital. For communication.


Wag your tail.



Roll over.

Play dead.

Lady Liberty

The taste she craved

Was not of his lips

But of freedom

The one she had thought up

The one she had told herself

She could never get from you

Tainted Paintings of the Femme

With delicate strokes and a masterful hand, God intricately paints the most beautiful women.

Yet I never fail to notice hues of her in all these paintings.

How, then, do I admire the art – when I know how lethal it can be?