I’ve internalised invisibility,
Learned to distrust my own adequacy.

Sometime after shedding acquired skin,
I started to scream;
Craving to feel seen eventually gets boring.

Designing for someone else - I still felt;
Then I fell.

Into a shroud of contradiction,
I refused to flatten expectations -
All the while muting conformation.

Okay, so—
I didn’t just walk out.
I ran.
Not in a cool, slow-mo movie way.
More like tripping over a slipper
and accidentally knocking over my own confidence.

From what?
Everything.
The noise, the drama, the people who say
“Can I give you some feedback?”
(Please don’t. I’m fragile.)

I ran from my to-do list,
from “urgent” group calls,
and that one aunty who asks
if I’ve “lost weight or just look sick.”
Honestly, both.

I ran when I saw my old teacher at the grocery store.
I ran when someone asked,
“What’s your 5-year plan?”
I barely have a 5-minute one
and it mostly involves snacks.

Call it immature—
I call it survival.

I didn’t pack much.
Just chips, a charger,
and a carefully folded blanket of denial.

No regrets.
Now I’m somewhere quiet,
where no one talks about promotions,
weddings,
or “what I’ve accomplished lately.”

Just me, my hoodie,
and a growing list of things I pretend don’t exist

it flickers to life with a mere spark,
burning so bright—
almost as if it’d set anything nearby into an uncontrollable fire.

the rage at the beginning continues
until the tip burns out.
and if you look close enough,
you'll see sparks dancing in the surrounding cloud of flame:
starting blue, then white,
then a bright orange and raging red.

often missed,
they say the smoldering heat lies in the blue zone.

and the craziest part?
the stick burns—turns black—
but before that,
it glows a bright red, like iron in a furnace,
even if just for a second.

if you touch the matchstick within those seconds—barely two or three—
it burns.
the ghost of the once very alive flame kisses your skin.
but not in a way that harms or leaves a mark—
in a way that the sizzle lingers just beneath the surface,
for minutes.
longer, if the zone is too sensitive.

the flame then catches the rest of the stick.
the darkness spreads so smoothly,
swallowing it whole—
almost like that one void we all try to escape from.

often, only the part you held—
the part you blew out,
afraid it’d reach your fingertips—
remains untouched.
it couldn't live the life meant for itself,
yet more than half was spent unsaid.

the black takes over.
devoid of red,
of flicker,
of magic.

but when it burns—
it’s the prettiest thing ever.

the flame.
the cloud of fire.
albeit small,
bright enough to smolder steel into black
(trust me, i’ve tried).
hot enough to burn skin
(based on personal experimentation).

flickering enough to cause destruction—
and addicting enough to make you want to commit arson.

and then it dies.

a burnt corpse.
once alive for seconds,
fulfilled its own eternity,
the life written for it since the very manufacturing—
and then it lies among the other half-broken, crushed soot,
to live its death.

that’s what it’s for.

like humans as well.

there's a balance to be

struck, the tightrope

between creativity and

burnout; a match lit from

both ends and I'm burning

alive.


I don't know when to stop.

When you rise, you already know:  
The lab waits, stale and still.  
Same floor, dirt, same click of keys—  
A day measured in dust, not thrill.

Forty hours, earned and owed.  
The hands of clocks don’t tick—they tap.  
Each second held like lab samples—  
Precise, but hollow, neatly stacked.  
You know the price.  
Wear your coat, neat and white.  
Glasses on, hair tied tight.

I check the time,  
Just to be met with nothing new.  
Lunch breaks stretch—too slow, too long—  
Like the day itself drains the soul.

That awful smell,  
Heating samples to a hiss.  
The heat rolls out—  
Burns your limbs, once blissfully unaware.

You finish early. Precision wins—  
But time is a master, not a guide.  
They won't send you home for clarity—  
They only need your hours, not your pride.

The dirt beneath the microscope  
Is cleaner than this worn routine.  
What once was physics, full of light,  
Now quantifies what might have been.

You didn’t light my passion—  
I burned it to the ground.  
Taught me nothing new,  
Expanded only knowledge of life:  
Forty hours a week—  
A dead-end job.

You know the steps before you move.  
Your badge, your desk, your shift, your face.  
You could draw it blind, dream it still—  
Each breath a brace for empty space.

You cry on days you can't explain.  
Too much knowing breaks the soul.  
Routine is a cruel scientist—  
It tests your limits. Marks its toll.

But still, you rise. And still, you go—  
Not for the thrill, but for control.  
If chaos is the only other path,  
Then monotony feels like parole.

I left the lab, but left much more.  
A spark once lit by force and flight  
Now physics haunts, not holds me close—  
A love I lost to measured light.  
Not every passion finds its path,  
But some still shine from deep within.

The morning light is
judgement day.
Like life's lingering memorial to inadequacy,
it is a death determined on slow demise.

Exacerbated exhaustion,
£s pounding your brain and taxing souls.

Bedroom shade, blissful sheets and bold coffee are
barless enclosures,
like spindles
patient for a maiden's finger.

This week, I remembered how to hold things gently-
how to sit in a sunlit room with laughter
and not flinch at the brightness.

I made time.
Not borrowed, not stolen, not carved from guilt,
but real time-
offered with open hands
to people who make me feel like more than a body on a schedule.

There were hours that didn’t apologize for passing,
moments that asked nothing from me but presence.
I gave what I had, and still had something left.
Even joy. Even peace.

This week didn’t ask me to survive it.
It let me belong to it.

And now,
at the edge of it all,
I’m quietly afraid-
that I will look back on these days
from some far-off place
where time slips like water,
and wonder if this was just
a rare breath
before the drowning begins again.

I can't close my eyes
tears gather.
I can't breathe
the air is stuck.
I can't gulp
my throat is tight.

I try to plant my dream,
but land is
barren

Still, I try.
Even my conscience
mocks me.