of all the things i have lost i miss my fucking sanity the most.
this fever is lawless the way it siezes my brain hostage, shoving degree celsius after degree celsius at me and i am screaming screaming screaming limbs too weak to flail and the words that fall out of my parched lips are tearful prayers to gods i do not believe in. this is what desperation tastes like: the way my sweat ransom is not enough to set me fucking free, the way my body crumples and falls to ground when the cool water i used to frolick in bites against my skin, no longer gentle kisses running away the magma mount in my head. desperation is the way i wear my thickest jacket in singapore’s fucking weather ot the way i force myself to sweat till i am blind or the way i force myself to cry. women earn 79 cents to every dollar a man earns, my vision is barbercue hazed while my stomach sloshes, a sick sound that threatens to let itself be heard and i wish i was dead. they say everyone is afraid of death and i want to laugh because i crave death the way you crave life.
why dont you kill yourself then? they whisper and i am buzzed.
i fear pain. i would rather be dead than writhing in bed, ghostly images telling me that have me thrashing in bed like the wild animal i am.
my heart is as heavy as my schoolbag and the guilt from yet-to-be-forged test papers. these days slipping into my depression is as easy as sleeping into my problems. look on the bright side they say, so i do. my australian friend sleeps six hours on a regular basis but here in singapore i sleep four hours. (three in the morning and one in lectures because my eyes are weighed down by the weariness bore from days of juggling a test every other day. my stomach churns like the sea deranged, slosh slosh slosh and i have to press my lips together lest oceans pour out of my eyes and rivers up my parched throat.) dreaming is a foreign concept but when i do i see quiet, hear the way the sky is blue and the grass, green, and i can feel the sweetness in the air and taste the joy in my heart.
when i come to, my pillow is damp.
i plunge headfirst into schoolwork.
house so empty, need a centrepiece, so i shove a whole goddamn furniture store down my throat.
- mondays are never really over until you’ve hit your daily quota of two anxiety attacks, one in the morning when the bile threatens to burn a hole up your throat, or somewhere at 1922 when one text is all it takes to release the floodgates that have been pounding against your eyes all day.
- mondays are never really over until the one minute between 2359 and 0000 steals away in silence.
- mondays are the antithesis of the paradise god placed on earth. on the contrary, mondays are wormholes to hell. move aside, teleporters, mondays exist.
- mondays are 48 hours long.
- mondays are designed to make me feel like the weight of the world lies on my shoulders. there is a gnawing emptiness in my heart, and no amount of whispered encouragement motivational quotes and black coffee can fill it up. who knew that the lack of existence would make me hypersensitive to the presence of unfair teachers unkind countrymen insensitive classmates?
monday medicine: press me against the wall and whisper ‘it’ll be fine’s into the shell of my ear