Bulls and teacups shouldn’t be part of each other’s worlds,
It’s the natural order of things:
bulls belong on meadows,
and teacups belong in homes,
a truth as old as time.

Unless life has a say in it, and it sure did for me.
One second, I was just enjoying my new-found freedom,
mid-twenties, learning to breathe on my own,
the next, I was grappling with trying to tame rage and restlessness—
animals which cannot be contained, I have found.

One minute I have fingers and write,
the next I wake up to hooves and cannot hold a pen for the life of me.
My ears have turned to horns
and no soothing words can caress my eardrum anymore.

Good morning and welcome to your new carcass
sustained by an unwilling participant,
where you have to navigate country life and the modern.
I’m wearing a new sweater,
not wool, cotton, or polyester:
this grief hugging me tightly grows like an incessant tumor,
joining me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner,
and for every spare moment it can find
(no, not even my summer walks are a safe space anymore).

It’s bigger than me and it’s
weighing
me
d
o
w
n.
I cannot take it off, tied around my neck so tightly, the knot making me nauseous
every time I swallow back the words hiding behind my tongue,
between my teeth
like gangrenous cavities.
So, I have to let them out,
flash floods of muddy waters,
destruction in their wake.
I’m like a bull in a china shop, breaking cups and dishes with every mention of its name,
and with every turn trying to get it off my back, I smash feelings and inklings of kindness,
annoying the other shoppers.
And I know it cannot be long before
I’m swiftly removed from the premises, thrown out on the street, warned not to come back;
look at all the shards lying on the ground,
should’ve realised sooner hooves and horns don’t mix well with blue willow china and all that is delicate.

Take a chill pill,
your neuroticism is showing,
and we cannot have that.
Bulls don’t belong in shops,
so either conceal that, or learn to live like one.

…

I’ve never eaten grass,
maybe I should give that a try.

I do enjoy the countryside,
so maybe grazing on the open meadows overlooking the sea
will be just the thing for me.
I will have enough room to ruminate, and run, and rage to my heart’s content
—and do all that bulls were born to do,
out of sight and out of mind.
My horns won’t get stuck in any teacup handles,
my hooves will only trample the hard ground and nothing tender,
my storms will synch with the ones at sea,
the sweater around my neck will finally keep me warm,
and I will have the natural rhythm of life ingrained in me,
at long last.

And then, when I’ll have grown bigger than my sweater,
and the line between the sky and the sea will have turned bright orange,
I’ll have earned the right to lay claim to my life:
“Okay, maybe it’s my time to go—but can we take the scenic route on the way out?”

The verdict came and went,
struck like fateful lightning and with it took chunks of identity,
gulping down ovaries, knees, colon, eyes and teeth
like a famished hound waiting to pound once more on flesh and heart and soul.
Made sure to bellow its name so that it would ring in my ears a thousand times a thousand,
and a thousand times a thousand,
and a thousand times a thousand,
long after it had struck,
so that I would die a thousand small deaths every day
in its wake.

So now, I am cursed and I die,
again and again,
The same deaths and new ones,
again and again,
I rage and cry out,
again and again,
I am restless and yearnful,
again and again,
A thousand times a thousand,
again and again,
and again.

I die.

I die when, before my usual summer walk in the park, I now have to pass the sweets aisle in the grocery store—no more ice cream for you, or else you’ll be inflamed for the next two weeks.
I die when old cafés and casual meeting spots become painful mementos of dear memories locked away for ever, to be revisited only through thoughts and pictures—you now have dietary restrictions, remember?
I die when I go from being low maintenance to having to bring my own food at family events—no more gluten, dairy, or anything else worth savouring for you; oh, and no more feelings of belonging.

I die when I cannot trust my body to know how to fall—that knee of yours is no longer a pillar of security.
I die when I go sledding and only slide downhill once for old times’ sake—can’t risk it with my meniscus lesions now.
I die when I can’t throw caution to the wind anymore and frolic without a second thought, even though the cornflower field is right there.

I die when my brother now carries my backpack on hikes—that sciatic nerve will never shut up again.
I die when I now have to cherry pick hikes depending on the symptoms nagging me.
I die in anticipation of the day when this little pocket of sunshine and freedom will be gone forever.

I die when I look back at photos from 2023—when I had only the burden of mental illness to carry.
I die when photos from January 2024 pop up—the last time I ever felt at home in my body,
Before I fell down this rabbit hole of life sentences that I can’t seem to crawl my way out of.

I die when I have yet another doctor’s appointment and have to start over with my medical history, again and again,
“Hi, hello, nice to meet you, my name’s Burden, here’s five folders of complicated past and present, all labelled by the impacted body part, and in chronological order. Where to now?”.

I die when I think about my progressive chronic condition biting into every letter of my name,
While I grip them tightly against my chest,
But my nails are brittle. And weak.
and I die,
bite marks all over me.

Granted, I started with twenty-two letters to my name,
plenty, you would think,
but they are lines and curves and strokes which I don’t want to give up gradually,
No, not even an inch.
I’d always imagined they would all go at once,
but alas,
I have been cursed with a slow death,
no matter how much I’d wished to be swallowed whole.
These letters of mine were meant to be cursive, flowing, growing, vivacious, audacious,
shaped by all that is beauty, and sensitivity, and adventure (and a few mild speed bumps here and there).
So, tell me, why are they now only dull hieroglyphs in doctors’ notes,
roadblocks keeping me from sanity,
gathering dust, and rage, and trauma?

So, I die,
again and again,
a thousand times a thousand,
though there are only 86,400 seconds in a day.

For what else was I born for, if not to die?

8 years in the making

no, this cannot be it.
you cannot tell me this cliché with the character who has just found his will to live
now suddenly dying blindsided in battle,
physical wounds winning over the putrid ruminations that didn’t devour him
is my final chapter.
what a poor excuse for a plot twist,
i abhor it,
no.

no.
i’ve come to learn that is a full sentence, and i will make full use of it for all my life.

no,
you cannot tell me that i crawled my way out of the existential dread,
bleeding nails, gnashing teeth, vengeful skin,
just to step out of the bottomless pit that engulfed me for more than half my life,
just to take a few steps into the buttery sunlight,
just to walk barefoot through the emerald blades born from the same soil,
just to open my ears to the mellifluous trills of hope-bringers,
just to catch a glimpse of freedom,
let it simmer on my tear-stained cheeks,
and drop dead from a disease that has now vowed to feast on what is left of my body
no.

no.
i have vowed to make my escape out of this poorly written novel,
tear the pages, set them alight, throw them in the wind,
and write myself as a living, breathing poem,
expanding my lungs at full capacity,
taking what is rightfully mine,
air, and vengeance, and will to live.
how did that first draft even make it to print,
it needed more proofreading,
who authorised that?
no.

no,
you cannot tell me this is my life now,
for however long i have left,
begging to be heard,
begging for a diagnosis,
begging.
i have begged long enough.
no.

no, you cannot tell me for the millionth time
i need to be the bigger person
and let it go.
i beg to differ, how big can i be when i am squashed under their foot every single time
insignificant insect that they see me as,
left to bleed, guts spilling out,
while they preach forgiveness and gratefulness to me.
there must be more to my size.
NO.

no,
you cannot tell me this grief is my life now,
nestling into the crevices of my mind
left unoccupied by the black death that tore at every neuron it could find.
no.

no,
for every reason, including anticipatory grief
at the gradual loss of my body, dignity and autonomy,
no.

no.
you cannot tell that after i disappeared inside myself for all that time
and finally came out of hiding,
i stepped right into the ravenous mouth of a chronic monstrosity,
and received a life sentence.
no.

no,
don’t call me a warrior, survivor,
or whatever synonym you can find for the sterile reality that i am a patient
for
ever.
i refuse to make it part of my identity,
i fancy myself a wistful pessimist learning to savour the little things in life,
inhabiting;
a wannabe spoken-word poet,
an occasional flutist,
a resolute daydreamer,
a pensive twenty-seven-year-old learning to live again,
taking afternoon walks through my peaceful neighbourhood,
“to watch the world spin without you” blasting from my phone,
learning to expand my lungs at full capacity.
i fancy myself this
and not anything else,
no.

no.
no.
no.

and till the end of time,
no.

if the wheels of time huffed and puffed,
and squeaked and screeched,
and wore and tore,
and spit out twenty-seven,

if twenty-seven taught me anything,
it’s
no.

7 years in the making

i am not the captain of my soul,
i want to let go,
let myself go,
throw myself into the merciless waves and abandon this wreckage of a body.
my organs have decided to commit mutiny
and in all honesty, i don’t blame them,
who would want to be led by a bunch of necrotic neurons
and a heart awaiting thrombophilia any beat now.

i don’t even know what started it all,
was it my ovaries that had betrayed me long ago?
cyst after cyst, drainage tube, use betadine,
one more jab, one more bruise,
look at the purple, and the green. what’s the use?
captain, oh, captain, you knew about the ruse,
but you gave up, and every organ then cleared the deck,
waited in silence and cooked up a scheme,
only to come back with sweet revenge
and now look who’s walking the plank

but who betrayed who?
was it them making you walk the plank?
or was it you who’d mentally checked out long before
and had failed to lead them to the long-awaited shore?
x marks the spot
for a void treasure chest
(and a laparoscopy, 4 incisions,

and that did it for them,
no more keeping abreast
of your panic attack or your hypochondriacal ways,
ovaries overboard,
next up’s the liver,
then you choose

abandon ship
i mutter
aye, captain,
and i’ll make sure to steer clear
of any future signs
of life

;

6 years in the making

twenty-six.
late twenties.
feels… bittersweet.
feels… like I’m
late
for something. for everything.
no milestone in sight.
I’m stuck.
falling behind.
still here,
but only 26% of the time

the rest of it is spent
in the scribbling of irrational fears,
nonsensical thoughts,
and rock bottoms with trapdoors
threatening to drag me to an early grave
and making me wonder: “mother, can you unbirth me already?”

all these
sprinkled with little joys here and there,

like
the new songs about kaleidoscope love and sleep deprivation,
one allowing me to daydream while looking at life,
the other helping me feel less lonely at night.

like
the solo August walks I take through the neighbourhood park,
enjoying my company,
feeling the summer breeze on my face,
taking in the murmur of the water fountain,
the trill of mated nest-builders,
the airplane trails making me wonder what lives those people have,
and people-watching.

like
the long, flowy skirts encasing my legs in a soft, soothing touch,
making me feel less overstimulated and more like I’m floating through life,
at least for 2.6 seconds at a time.

like
the hearty laughs erupting whenever my siblings poke fun at me,
reminding me I should seriously
take myself less seriously.

like
my Jane Austen-inspired comfort movies
making me feel safe and cherished
when I yearn for light-heartedness, companionship and togetherness

like
the spoken-word poems I come across late at night,
reminding me there’s more
to experience,
to discover,
to live,

if only
I could develop a more protean approach to life,
if only
I could get past the survival stage I’ve been stuck in
for more than half my life.

it feels unfair to come upon the realisation
that I only get to live life
at a Sisyphean 26% at best

but at this point,
I’ll take what I can get.
and 26 is enough

when I die,
don’t come to my funeral.
don’t bury me.
just leave my corpse wherever I finally bid farewell to this world
I never wished to come in in the first place
no choice then
but I choose now.
and I choose to be forgotten.

don’t come to my funeral.
those are for people who want to be remembered.
who, for better or worse, have done at least one thing good with their lives,
have left their mark on one other soul,
have lived.

I
have

never
lived.

don’t come and wish me goodbye,
and say we’ll meet again one day,
for
as much as I loved you
(incapable as I was of deep emotions other than anxiety and depression),
as much as I would like to see you again,
I do not wish for you to ever see me again.
don’t remember me,
don’t give me a grave where you can come back to
when you wish to talk to me.

one of my love languages are words of affirmation
(go figure – always the people-pleaser expecting validation from the outside),
so don’t show me you love me,
not even in death.

forget me,
so you can move on
to someone who deserves all of that.

I have never wanted to live,
and not die, either.
just simply: cease existing.

but
if you insist on showing your love for me
one last time,
help me disappear.
no trace lingering on some things, or some ones.

when I die,
don’t come to my funeral.

almost slender fingers reaching for the basket full of seashells,
the only way out.
I grab one of the bigger ones
—hoping for louder waves crashing against my eardrums,
louder, louder, louder,
taking me away from this stifling existence;
hoping the sound of the restless sea would drown out the impending to-do list of endless tasks
waiting to grab my weak ankles and drag me back into the grey of existential dread.

so, I stick the seashell to my ear,
breathe in, breathe out,

in and out,

in and out,

in and out,

anchor myself into a few moments of ease,
yearn for salty air, screeching seagulls, a serenade of crashing waves and parched sand,
and soak up the winter sun.
apricity.

I cling onto the few moments of sweet solitude
allowing me to keep my sanity

okay, time’s up. I know you need more,
but the pressing matters won’t stop pressing against the back of your mind,
and the front of it and every other side they’ll find,
so just let the waves crash in,
flood your brain with much-needed nothingness,
and keep going.

don’t worry. at least you’ll always find the seashells
just where you left them,
and the soothing sea waves right next to your eardrums

deliverance in a seashell