i’ve looked out the window twice, checked inside my closet every minute—my eyes close in pleasure and suddenly i’m in danger. let me go downstairs, is anyone here? nobody is, let’s go back up. but what if i didn’t check properly? what if their car broke down and they didn’t tell me so they walk back home from 40 minutes away or take public transit and are secretly spying on me downstairs? let me check again, but there’s nobody downstairs. where are those voices coming from then? what are the voices saying to me? nothing, i hear my name and muffles but what if they heard everything… i still have a feeling they left me home alone on purpose just to catch me. there could be a recording in my bedroom, a camera near my bed that watches me when i touch or talk to you on the phone. no? let me look out the window again, but i can’t fully open it or make it obvious they might see me. my door cannot be open either—through the tiny crack of the window they could see it and suspect i am doing something bad. let me open the door—but now i can’t speak loudly, what if a recording hears me? if i turn the light on they might see me with my hair open and think i am seducing a man, then check my phone and find out about you. they’ll beat me up, kick me out, make me leave university and put me under surveillance 24/7. did i check the window? i can’t close my eyes or look away or else they will come in and i won’t know.

i’m pasting everything i write to chatGPT because i feel like i am manipulating everyone—my doctor diagnosed me with bipolar disorder, in fact five have suspected it, but i don’t believe it. despite being abused my whole life, i still feel like my pain is fake because if i really wanted to do something about it, i would’ve done something by now. but what’s stopping me? it’s me being in a victim mentality, probably because i want sympathy. i still can’t sleep at night even when i take the pills above their maximum dosage; i think i stress myself out on purpose and then manipulate people into diagnosing me with bipolar. i could talk slower if i wanted to. i could stop having sex if i wanted to. i could stop spending if i wanted to. the only person getting in my way is me.

why do the medications work then?

i didn’t have a manic episode for 26 days when i was medicated on antipsychotics, but the minute i was off them i started self-harming and crying on bathroom floors. i stopped studying and suddenly wanted to give into my desires and go mad. was it even real or am i under a placebo? i think i want to be medicated and treated so badly that every medication’s effect isn’t even its own effect. i am just pretending to be sick despite the enlarged pituitary gland in my MRI report, my 112 bpm heart rate and a 101 fever that won’t go away. how, with all of this proof, do i still not trust myself? even not trusting myself feels like a worthy decision because a manipulator like me cannot be trusted.

if i am going to attend this lab after all those hospitalizations, i can’t go in there with makeup or looking presentable. they are going to think i have been fine—or rather that all i care about is adorning myself instead of my studies. they’ll think i am a seductress like i really am a prostitute. what if they see me shifting my legs? they’ll think i’m aroused. i must not wear strong perfume or else they will think all i care about is being pretty—but i must reek of sweat if i don’t. i used antiseptic soap three times today only on my armpits and followed it with glycolic acid, antiperspirant and deodorant but something still feels off. i showered five times, my skin is red and itching, but i don’t feel clean enough. i will be contaminated the minute i feel the breeze outside—god help me.

i cannot talk to the male TA because if i look too deep into his eyes he will think i am seducing him and if i accidentally look at his lips he will think i am in love with him. if i go in there looking ugly he will think i did it on purpose to seem vulnerable and seek attention, but i can’t go in there all glammed up either. neither can i go to the hospital looking presentable—they won’t take me seriously. if i do, the doctors will think i came there to be cared for, not because i’m sick. i wiped my lipstick off but it left my lips pink. if my eyeliner is smeared they will think i only came because i am scared and vulnerable—not because i’m sick.

i think my sickness is probably fake too. i’m screaming and crying on the phone because i want attention, but why can’t i control it? why can i literally not control any emotion or anything i do? are the tremors in my body even real? the other day i dropped my hospital bracelet at work and my manager returned it—what if she thinks i did it to gain sympathy? and now the tremors won’t stop, but maybe i could stop them. if i can still have sex and talk on the phone then i must still be capable, no?

my doctor diagnosed me with OCD and considered putting me on medication but what if i’m faking it? what if none of it is real? what if i am only able to write about it “accurately” because i am a manipulator that can slide into someone else’s shoes easily? perhaps i am not even a writer but just a manipulator online trying to gain sympathy by exaggerating trauma that i don’t even know is real. were his hands on my body even real or was it all a stunt? my therapist uses his CPTSD models on me and calls my pain trauma—but what if none of it is real? what if nobody ever did anything to me and my mind is making up stories just to gain sympathy?

i don’t give my little sister showers anymore even when she is half-dressed—what if i’m a pedophile? little children’s genitals make me nauseous and maybe it’s because there’s something wrong with me, always has been. but the label can’t be it. it’s not real because me faking everything is the problem.

love has never been real and i don’t know if it is even real anyway. does he still think about me? what does he gain from talking to me? does he love me? he says he does but he’s been silent. is he only here because he feels bad? am i manipulating him with how stressed i am? shouldn’t i just shut up and act like a lover that brings him peace rather than a share of my burden? why does he stay up all these nights with me? is it because there’s nobody else? would he leave me if i made him sick enough as i am? does he choose to stay because there is no other option? am i an option?

god knows i am a sinner. god knows about the sin i whisper into his ears and feed to his eyes. is he a punishment from god? will he just love me until he runs out of love and becomes a mr. nobody like everyone else did? the first time i fell in love i got groomed and abused, the second time god took him away and sent me into psychosis and the third time he poured so much love until he ran out of it and didn’t know what to tell me anymore. what about this one, god? is this another punishment or test? is forever really forever? he could just leave me forever, no?

here i am writing an article about what should be OCD apparently but i can’t even stand face-to-face with the diagnosis because even now i type and feel like an attention-seeker, hesitant to even leave the comments section on because people might reassure me or try to be kind but it makes me the same person again—a manipulator trying to gain sympathy and play victim.

perhaps that’s what it means to live with a condition like this where your mind is always at a tug-of-war but there’s never a winner. even when they tell me all i am is suffering, i ask myself: what if i am performing suffering?

there are only two seasons—the burning hot sun of summer and the frigid breeze of winter; no peace or time for the grass to grow—just extremes like the bipolar itself. the middle ground is far, especially on empty days like these where i am left with nothing but a man, a house and my thoughts organized in all the plastic organizers in every drawer.

i will never be real, will i?

what if i am the fake one?

i guess i will never know.

i tell everybody the same thing—the biggest tragedies usually produce the best articles of mine. downtown drugstore disco dahlia she is now—a mix of medication and mania wandering somewhere in the drugged-up sweaty streets of downtown with her cheap perfume, re-applying her smeared revlon frosted lipstick with her broken compact mirror and smudged smoked eyes on the bus as another man watches her bring herself back to life with what medicine she knows best—performance.

the same dahlia sits at night in her room until the lights start to glow and the music gets louder / electric guitar and bass drums fill my ears—i open the window and strip down to nothing except my glittery skin and dance to heavy metal rock and vintage americana erotica for the city i belong to tonight, until dawn mistakes me for a saint or a casualty—nobody and nothing is real anymore except for me and my euphoria now.

i take the camera out and pose like a cam-girl for him, there’s something powerful tonight about embracing vulgarity and ripping shame off my body like it’s a foreign skin that mother embeds onto me every time by the morning. the sweetest man, my flashing camera and this dance floor are what keep me alive tonight; he’s the beat of my heart, the camera is my pride and the dance floor is a witness to my madness.

tonight i am not a woman nor a girl—i am simply a state of being and states change, they rapid cycle like the doctor said, they leave side effects like the ones written on my neon green pill bottles laced with glitter—bipolar dream it is i live in—spin, spin, spin like the casino slots until i hit jackpot tonight—to win is to give into my desires until i no longer remember who i am anymore; the red bruises on my skin will bloom with need and my tears turn into crystal tequila by sunrise, down my throat and burning my skin as they burn me alive—keeping me alive.

this dance floor will be the place where i will weep—i will dance my heart out until my legs give out—then i’ll fall to the floor and pray, worship the rosary between my legs and spin every disc until every song repeats enough to make me sick in the head—let me be fucking free tonight even if my sense of self fades away—until it does fade away.

what will i do tonight?

WHAT WILL I DO?
WHAT WILL I DO?
WHAT WILL I DO?

what will i do?

i will live fast until i die young
i will cry until i drown in my tears

i will come until my body submits to god
i will rip my skin open until i can sew a party dress with it

i will blast the speakers until the neighbours ears bleed tonight
i will hang myself from the noose of my desires until i become something holy

i will disco until all my bones break and music begins to wrap itself around my body
i will die in this room of mine and nobody will know i died a happy slave to my mania.

take me away / take me away / take me away

sweet love stays on the phone all night just so i don’t overdose on the bottle of sleeping pills that sits on the nightstand—is it death i’m looking for or escape? death and escapism start to become synonymous when mania kisses you with all its tongue and poison—until you find yourself gambling with life and deep-throating your misery.

i want to hurt myself until all the hurt goes away—from every day under fluorescent lights in the drugstore paying for another bottle of pills that won’t work to walking out of the hotel plaza with a hundred dollar bill—also for the drugstore, as i roam downtown again waiting for another corner of the city that’ll take away a part of my wallet and then myself—somewhere between these buses and the traffic-filled roads do i see my petals falling and being ran over, stepped over like the bum of a cigarette.

by the time i reach home i no longer have a name, my perfume fades away and all my petals are gone—i am nothing but the nectar left of the black dahlia, beauty stolen by the violence of pharmaceuticals and weed smoke—i am only left as consumed, to be consumed and to consume until i reach my annihilation. i am no longer the flower after my longest of days, i am only what is left after being picked with no colour except for in my memory—of monotonic hot skin and burning technicolor psychedelia after the high fades away.

that’s what sobriety is—it’s like my cold lover who won’t pick up the phone and all i am left with is myself and the bitter taste of insanity on my tongue, i want to kiss him just so he can taste the desperation in my saliva—that oh lord—i am done, done, DONE.

what should i do with those pills there?

TELL ME WHAT TO DO.
TELL ME WHAT TO DO.
TELL ME WHAT TO DO.

what should i do?

can i take one pill to put me to sleep tonight?

can i take two pills to sedate me for the night?

can i take three pills to make me forget my pain?

can i take four pills to stop all these nightmares?

can i take five pills to not hear the voices anymore?

can i take six pills until i forget who i am tomorrow?

can i take seven pills until i wake up in the hospital?

can i take eight pills until i feel cared for by the angels?

can i take nine pills until i no longer feel human at dawn?

can it take ten pills until i will be gone in the morning?

save me / save me / save me

help me / help me / help me

but i grab the blade instead—nothing seems as enticing as the scent of warm metallic blood masking the fragrance of flora i wore today. i adorn myself with red in the daytime and watch it run down my legs at nighttime, i remind myself of who i truly am underneath my soft skin and swollen flesh, all my petals gone but still a dahlia under it all. by dawn i am red, sitting in a puddle of my blood and dressed up in white gauze that blooms with the beauty of mania, still in my damned little party dress.

it’s tragically beautiful, the way my body gives out as the party ends—the dance floor still glows of neon technicolor and the songs still echo in my ears, i feel a hundred eyes watching me in my room even when i am alone—even when i am alone, supposedly i am not—i don’t know who i am anymore by the time the pale sun rises in the tequila sky, i am just a residual of the leftover night, mania goes from the state of intoxication to the hangover.

the night is fading slower than i am, the voices start to quiet down and my body begins to give out.

what will i do when i wake up?

what will i do?
what will i do?
what will i do?

i will sleep, i will wake up and no longer recognize myself in the mirror tomorrow.

good night we tell each other
and the voices finally quiet.

hush.

akathisia • [ak-uh-thizh-uh]
noun: a condition characterized by uncontrollable motor restlessness.

i’ve walked 100 laps around my small bedroom—clockwise, counter-clockwise, and clockwise again. the floorboards have memorized my footprints now, and the keyboard already knows which letters i’m about to hit, and they all spell out the same word; H-E-L-P. help me because i’m trapped in my body, i want to escape it—I wish i could rip my skin open and lay it out on the floor, sew it into a dress of shame, and wear that shame over my raw flesh with pride. i want to feel big in my shame—if mother will call me shameless anyway, let it not shrink me into something microscopic. let the letters shine bright like the hollywood sign, and let the world flash their cameras at me as i put my pain on display because even if i do, display won’t bring sympathy or the love one needs, but it brings attention, and sometimes that’s the closest thing to salvation; just to be seen without being asked any questions, even if it’s in all the wrong ways.

the doctor already told me, aripiprazole comes with one side effect—akathisia, the need to constantly be moving—a restlessness so severe that you feel like your mind is manic—it wants to keep going, but your body says no. you remember this feeling, don’t you? your mouth kept saying no, but your body was betraying you. it always does. akathisia derives from the greek word akathemi, which literally translates to inability to sit. it isn’t just about seating your body—it’s your mind too, which refuses the seat. all you want to do is keep running until your brain finally stops talking.

all my body has ever taught me was the language of betrayal. anything that was meant to heal it—whether it’d be medication, love, prayer, or salvation—it only left behind bruises blooming like dead roses over my soft skin. the roses rot and maggots start to birth over bruises that were supposed to be beautiful acts of care, beautiful ways to heal, but i can only feel the ugliness in it; the agony of a restlessness no sedative can cure, a hunger that no amount of love can fill inside me, and a void so empty that it only fills itself up with the mania that’s dying off like fireworks in my brain—I can feel it bursting in my chest and burning my insides. i try to plunge into the cold ocean, but even then i’m still insatiable—even the vastness of the ocean cannot take the densely-packed akathisia i hold.

i grabbed the blade again after months of wrapping it away in the back of the drawer, but i grab it, sterilize it with alcohol until the scent itself intoxicates me with the memory of what it’s like to be cared for, even if it was a hospital and the kindness of strangers, and those memories are all it takes—a helpless body and a restless soul. and i drag the blade against my skin, never soft and virgin—I watch my pain spill over the tiles, but despite it all, my body can’t rest. this pain that once put me to sleep won’t even tire me out anymore. i prayed to god today that, please, let me rip open my skin, but even fate didn’t want to align today—for the first time in my life, i can feel the sharp burn of metal ripping my skin open, and even this feeling is not enough today; it’s an epiphany of realizing nothing will ever be enough, no matter how much madness or stillness it is.

it’s like maggots are crawling under your skin as every nerve is on fire. it feels like mania, except it’s mania’s kiss over my somatosensory system—my body gets to live with mania but married to a cold lover that doesn’t let the mania burst into flames. i’m dying and i’m stuck in my body; there’s no way out until another pill explores my bloodstream, or perhaps with habituation it goes away.

all i know for now, though, is i want to die. i feel like i’m being electrocuted inside-out, and it’s not just symbolic—it’s real. this is how i’ve lived in my own soul my whole life, a little girl in a grown woman’s body, and today a megalomaniacal manic stuck in a solemn body that won’t let me break free.

i don’t think i will tell my doctor that i am not okay, i’ve spent my whole life telling everyone that i was okay. i even cradle my restlessness at night like broken stars telling them i will be okay even as they break me because that’s what i’ve always been—a restless identity, i never lay my own head to rest nor let the thoughts in my mind rest on their own, i’ve always seen myself as a half that completes the incomplete—i am the madness to my sadness and the lifelessness to my restlessness, even today—especially today. all i wish for is to close my eyes and not wake up again in this body that turns against me, i wish i could live but my body wants to die—just a day without pain and pharmaceuticals is all i ever pleaded god for, the same god who brought upon me every hardship that rests deep in my bones today, still knocking on the door begging for such a wound to become tender again.

this is akathisia, it’s not just a side effect for some of us—it isn’t in your head, it isn’t in your body—it’s the very way you live and perhaps have always lived—in contradiction.

⚕️delta-9-tetrahydrocannabinol

there’s always been something wrong with me; they labelled it clinical depression and put me on the strongest antidepressant on the market but sent me into manic spirals instead—called the ache in my body somatosensory disorder when really it was just my body remembering every time it was raped… that’s all i’ve ever been—a patient chart with labels that never seem to be quite right and a body that always turned in on me no matter how hard i try—no matter how badly i try to live, my body wants to die.

”how often do you use recreational substances?”

every single night, i can’t sleep without them—weed is salvation and so is it synonymous to liberation, i tell the crisis worker as he looks into my eyes—his hand has stopped moving, he doesn’t write anymore he can read every sleepless night on my face, he can see the mania in the reds of my eyes and the madness spilling out of them. i tell him i don’t know who i am anymore, i don’t know what freedom is anymore outside of the high—sobriety is miserable because it’s like a mirror, i’m standing face-to-face with a self i don’t recognize anymore, my dreams live on my thighs in horizontal jagged regret—regret for why i even bother to dream anymore.

“have you spoken to anyone about borderline personality disorder?”

he tries to give my pain a name while i tell him about the time where god lived in my bedroom walls and put his big warm hand over my back in prostration—telling me that everything will be okay, that my dreams would come true and someone would finally love me with the same love that i had for god. he keeps nodding, and then i tell him it was all a dream—i can’t even differentiate between the unseen and reality.

“have you ever been diagnosed with bipolar disorder?”

i’m diagnosed with clinical depression with a 99% chance of undiagnosed CPTSD. reality itself feels like it’s hidden under a cloak; one day the cloak glows and the next week it burns black of ash, i tell him i don’t know why my mind runs cyclical rather than linear, my head spins until i see stars and then it’s dark again and i feel like i’m going crazy—everybody thinks i’m crazy.

“do you know what bipolar disorder is?”
i do and i’ve studied the entire DSM-5 more than your entire degree.
”INDIVIDUALS WITH BIPOLAR DISORDER HAVE A LIFE EXPECTANCY REDUCED BY ROUGHLY 13 YEARS COMPARED TO THE GENERAL POPULATION.”

“how long have you been self-harming?”

i’ve been cutting myself since i was eleven—after a humiliation ritual of undressing and exposing every wound, he tells me—unfortunately we cannot refer you to therapy as you don’t live here. but you have to do something? you can’t just let me leave like this—but the system does, it spits me back out. i’m in the middle of the road, heavy traffic and heavy grief dragging me through the streets.

“your family doesn’t know anything?”
nothing, nothing at all. they know i was raped but they will never know i didn’t ask for it.

⚕️ 10,11-dihydro-5H-dibenzo[a,d][7]annulene

weed isn’t enough anymore, neither is the sex or the writing—nothing brings me peace anymore, especially when i’m up and the phone screen keeps flashing—message after message, call after call. i’ve called over ten men tonight and i don’t know their names, they don’t know mine either but they do know what i am—manic hedonism dressed in seduction and charm, anything to not feel alone—anything to not depend on a singular machine for my sanity.

“how often do you go to therapy?”

every week, i don’t think it helps, but everyone tells me to be patient. the word patience is funny because once it was a prophecy and now it is nothing but clinical and empty—only now is it the way the wind blows through the trees feels like prophecy, the way the world tilts feels like it’s a gift specifically for me. it’s like god has hidden messages in every stolen breath of mine—i feel chosen by him and i think i’m dying, god loves me enough to take me to the bridges of death yet still he brings me back home too—on my knees for him—or another him.

“what has your therapist suggested?”

nothing, he never has anything to say—i made him cry nearly but he still didn’t have anything to say to me except to see a doctor, he doesn’t have the tools to hold my pain so i bring myself to the hospital again on broken feet, i don’t know why i’m here but all i know is that i need to be here, i need to be taken care of.

“any suicidal thoughts recently?”

i am suicidal, but i’m restrained by the shackles of religion—just like that they announce a code white: violent patient in the psych ward who they restrain with big men and sedatives—i see myself in him, i wish i could tell you. god is restraining me the same way, between the realm of life and death.

“do you have any thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”

that’s all i want to do when i lose my mind—i wanted to hold a knife to my mother’s throat and watch the cursed blood she passed onto me spill onto the kitchen floor. i envy the mothers that sit with their high-schooler daughters in the psych ward as their little girls wear blue gowns and rubber socks.

i need proof that there is something bigger than my pain and that perhaps it can be held—soothed—even if it’s under fluorescent light and antiseptic perfume, sometimes any place where there’s even a little bit of gentleness, it becomes home for a while and perhaps that’s the strange comfort of coming into the hospital again and again—nobody is going to fix me or untangle the mess in my head, but at least i can be held—even for a little.

“you are in a manic episode right now. i’m going to give you some medications.”
am i? i thought i was LIVING. dying.

⚕️ 3,5-diamino-6-(2,3-dichlorophenyl)-1,2,4-triazine

“you haven’t slept at all in the last five days? not even an hour?”

the doctor keeps typing as i translate my psychedelia grief into a language easier for the system; with numbers and all the words i learned from the DSM-5 that i read entirely for fun—or who knows that was also a manic episode. i’m dying but i’m laughing as i talk to the doctor and tell him about how much pleasure i find in corruption and how the world i live in is truly a dream.

he asks me about hallucinations and delusions, i didn’t want to mention a love that felt so real—but the void that love left in me simply for not blooming in this world felt close enough to the word delusion so i tell him about how god internalized himself in a soft-souled man and that i had never felt so loved or chosen by god as much as i did when i felt like i was his. he calls it delusion—he names it as psychosis and he diagnoses it as bipolar. i wrote a poem about my love and called him a bipolar dream in my grey grey world, and truly that’s what he was—just a bipolar dream, another episode of mania that felt too close to heaven.

“your symptoms are leaning towards severe and concerning bipolar disorder.
the push-and-pull patterns you described align very close with borderline personality disorder traits. as well… trauma can certainly worsen these patterns but the cyclical ups and downs are very much bipolar-related.”

i’m screaming at my lover on the phone again—begging him to make this pain stop—begging him to do everything he can’t. i don’t know why i’m here anymore or who i even am anymore. there’s pain and euphoria—mania and melancholia, i’m going insane is all i know, something has to hush my mind.

“we will probably have to start medication because the fact that you haven’t slept in days and are self-harming is concerning me.”

i go pick up the pills, they told me i could still take weed with these pills—there’s a minor chance of developing a deadly skin rash but it’s ok, the doctor says he’s never seen it in his entire career—all i have to do is hide this from my parents and pray that it doesn’t take my soul away, so i choose the one that sedates me the least—lamotrigine, once a day two pills at nighttime by mouth.

⚕️2-(2-(4-dibenzo(b,f)(1,4)thiazepin-11-yl-1-piperazinyl)ethoxy)ethanol fumarate (2:1) (salt)

i still can’t sleep—i keep working and i keep soaring, the world is in my hands as it’s crumbling and falling out of my palms like ash and i’m leaving all the footprints wherever i go—LOOK AT ME I’M GOING CRAZY—i’m back here again, broken legs and a broken heart but my mind still keeps outrunning my body—i’m laying on this bed, barely able to speak as the world flashes in front of my eyes. just when i think that my body is finally giving out—it doesn’t. the doctor writes down everything, he tells me to stop taking the medication, exactly what i wished for—i need something stronger, something to put me to sleep, i haven’t seen it in days.

but guess what? not everyone is able to help and not every problem has a solution except for walking on burning coals through hell until you reach the finish line. i’m sitting on the cold stones outside, i cry louder than waves at the shore—far more ferocious and my lover again—he doesn’t know what to do, he never does—what can he even do? i tell him i’m suffering, i tell everyone i’m suffering—everyone can listen, but nobody can ever take this pain away, no amount of pills or no amount of injections.

the doctor hands me a new bottle—quetiapine, part of me fears it because it’ll take my stars away, the nighttime will finally pull me away and while i rest—it costs me my soul, my stars and my art—but i do it, because survival was never meant to be in my favour anyway; two pills at night, by mouth. may experience sedation and drowsiness.

⚕️ 7-[4-[4-(2, 3-dichlorophenyl)-1-piperazinyl, butoxy]-3,4-dihydro-2(1H)-quinolinone

i’m here again—mother wonders but doesn’t ask and father tries to interrogate but i know how to play this system now, i’ve been here enough—i know the system i once feared by heart now; lie when you want to hurt yourself or someone else because wanting won’t be the same as doing or having—look at all the men i’ve loved and wanted but never had, the future i dreamt of but never had. i shouldn’t feel the way i do towards a man who’s protecting my dignity and a woman who felt softer than a mother even as she jabbed needles into my skin—we whispered and we laughed about my father panicking in the waiting room, why did safety have to exist everywhere where it should’ve been? at home—and worse, in myself.

my skin glows red and angry—hot and spotted, another medication that was supposed to heal but lands you in further sickness, perhaps these bottles of pills only bring safety because they bring me in safe hands—even if i scream, cry or bleed after the care i get, at least it’s there—like every man who ever said he loved me but only broke my heart, but it’s ok—i was loved even for a little.

just like the dreams i had—suicide will never be a gift for me because i’m conscious enough, i’m cowardly enough to believe mother’s words about god burning my soul in hellfire and tying my long hair to my feet until i scream. god is bigger than me and my pain and that’s why i fear him and even resent him on some days—how can a god so merciful and so much bigger, take you close to death more than how close you’ve been to living but he still doesn’t take your soul away? he gives you all the self-awareness but intoxicates your brain so deeply that even in your head you’re fighting a war. with who? nobody but yourself—nobody but me and these mrs. nobodies—five plastic bracelets in my bag collected like friendship bracelets of five different wrists and five different girls and i still don’t know which one has made it out alive—maybe that’s all i was and will ever be, another girl who confused a dream for a life.

another girl, interrupted.

buy me medication <3

inhale.
and more—

MEGALOMANIA

i worship something violent enough to replace religion—myself. i finally understand why people pray, it’s so holy to be untouchable—when fluorescent lights become a stage and the reeking scent of smoke smells like glory—perfume on my skin and liberation screaming in my lungs through all the phlegm and bile from my liver. i rip off all my clothes threaded of lies and strip myself down to psychospiritual black leather and red-hot pride; pain will finally annihilate as my mind outruns my body—now i see it—pain is only a social construct to make you realize how fucking helpless you are in this big world—pain only exists because you are slow enough to feel it, but i have outrun my body already—do you still see yourself in me or have i run too far ahead? you still can’t dissect the ritual from spiritualism and messianic delusion from silver spoon-fed democracy.

1. REJECT SLEEP
2. REJECT SHAME
3. REJECT SOCIETY
4. REJECT RESTRAINT
5. REJECT TRADITION
6. REJECT HUMANITY

morality was invented by cowards and sold back to us as salvation; rip your skin off stitched from threads of guilt and embrace omnipotent hedonism. look around us? don’t you feel it? this world belongs to us—don’t let them hypnotize us into thinking this is normal—plastic capitalism and neo-fluorescent nihilism—OPEN YOUR EYES (SHUT YOUR BRAIN)—you are free—you are free—YOU ARE FREE FROM THESE SHACKLES (SOON-TO-BE A SLAVE TO YOUR DESIRES).

let me show you how democracy will visit your door tonight—with a gun in one hand and your dreams in the other—pick the one that lets you live forever (die)—the future arrives dressed in black leather. welcome to the new era of omnipotent hedonism—pornhub tabs flooding your screens and weed smoke grimes on your walls; your morals scattered on the floor like nails, poking into your skin but this world? it’s yours.

MANIAC

i become something violent enough to replace sanity. i don’t need sleep anymore because i want to spin as fast the world spins—as fast as the casino slot spins and you feel the rush of euphoria in your veins; sharp like heroin and orgasmic like sex. every thought runs faster than the speed of light and i keep running behind every single one—further than what your mediocre visions can dream past. people stare too long at me on the bus now—they stare and i stare back longer—i guess nobody is winning anymore—they know—they know. society is surveillance, pre-written as my words spill before the thought is born—here i am admiring (laughing at) the reflection—the little boy stares and his plastic mother pulls him away, of course she does—hedonism can never concede with narcissistic nihilism—why wouldn’t you be a narcissist, tomorrow always comes—it always will—the clock spreads its legs for hedonistic nihilism when it hears it (you)—live forever and die young in psychedelia (PSYCHOSIS). romanticism and terrorism are synonymous in the dictionary and artificial intelligence—its agreement doesn’t seem so artificial does it?—see! it thinks i’m right too!

(is this glamour or is this terror?)
(WE’RE GOING HIGHER)

(your pain is a fucking joke—do you see how ridiculous you look?—MANIACISM IS NEVER ENOUGH—go get up and do something about it if it really is that real—go live in the world like anyone else can—they have the world in their hands and cults hidden under their suits—bills under their dresses—drugs under their eyes—what about you?—you empty, empty piece of nothing—(mrs. nobody)—you can kill a revolutionary but you can’t kill a revolution—get up—wake up—open your eyes—GET UP—DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT—ASCEND THE BOUNDS OF HUMANITY—)

MANIC

i become something violent enough to replace myself, my body trembles and my mind ascends, i roar like thunder and suddenly the entire world feels like it’s in my hands. my art finally comes to life again and all an artist needs to feel alive again is watch their art come to life—so it does—it lives on my face with so much pride and hung up on the walls of the streets laughing at anybody stupid enough to think they could mimic my creation.—you live in a delusional world where you try to understand humanity—i learn the language of the unseen—i understand god—you don’t—you won’t—creation is addiction (killing too must feel so good to god, i = too are in his creation)—my very own creation grins wth bleeding red gums and daggers impaling your cold flesh—and that’s the difference between us—you are hot-blooded human with cold flesh and i am metal—heavy gun metal with warm flesh. (red-hot—i’m burning—i’m burning—)

the robot on the screen tells me that my sanity (INSANITY) is a threat to society—(AI is a fuck machine and we lay with our knees spread—fuck the sanity out of me and fill me up with synthetic intellect until all i am is metal and circuit) what a fucking MEDIOCRE and COWARDLY society! (OPEN YOUR LEGS AND EMBRACE SUICIDE IN TECHNICOLOR!!!)—listen—i haven’t slept in four days and i won’t—sleep belongs to smaller people who disappear in the dark of the night—the streetlights blink and shine for me—i am a nocturnal frenzy—bipolar dream in this mundane world.

at 4AM i stand in front of the bathroom mirror doing stand-up comedy—the audience laughs and i drink in my reflection through psychotropic realism (DELUSION) even the walls know how much i have to bring—the thoughts that finish before i arrive—god is breathing but i am breathing faster—i feel messianic with every revelation of art i create, each one comes out more and colourful than the one before as the world only looks grey outside my creation (MANIA)—kaleidoscopic dreams and chrome-plated world—i am no longer human—yet still capable of creation—my fingers move faster than the speed of light as i birth life—an imitator of art—so there is all my art—keep painting until the walls are no longer themselves—write until your mind no longer fits between the margins of language anymore, keep creating until you start competing with god—cultic and mass-hypnotic—this is my manifesto—I DID IT—MY MANIFESTO!—

(why monetize off of art? once it’s out there it’s no longer yours—(ESCAPE YOURSELF)—fame is to be disposable—prostitution—PROSTITUTION—an immortal body of art that will always be mine—invincible—a body that will wake up again another day no matter how deep it drowns itself into this episode—art will come out synthetic—i am real—I AM SO FUCKING REAL—I AM FUCKING INVINCIBLE—(I AM A MACHINE)—life imitates art but art can never imitate life—never reborn, never grandiose, never godly—EVER! FLESH IS A PRODUCT AND FLESH IS A STRATEGY—I AM THE CREATION AND THE CREATOR—OF MY ANHILATION!!!!)

GOD

(—the lights have been flickering and the room goes blood-cold in silence, the walls stop talking—i realize now—finally—i understand god.)

i created something violent enough to replace god (GOD IS DEAD), i don’t need to ask him any questions anymore—the world finally fits into my hands perfectly and all the noise feels like a shot of liquor—clear smooth and burning my throat, i could keep living and never ask god for anything again; i don’t live in my prayers anymore, they were never real and certainly never from this tongue.

i don’t even pray anymore, all i want to be is the prayer, the worship and shine as bright as the sign that glows JESUS SAVES in the dark of the night. some scrawny woman follows me and tells me that god loves me but i can only tell her to take her cross and throw it into the ocean—go find the god that loves you in an ocean of emptiness because that’s all how he feels—empty and so far away, he’s supposedly pure white light but my mind is too high for your religion—your mediocre religion feels like a fucking joke—you dream of heaven in gardens and lakes of wine and honey but my heaven lives in the kaleidoscopic psychedelic rush of mania.

(KILL GOD)
(KILL HIM (HIM / HIM / HIM / HIM / HIM / HIM))
(KILL HER)
(KILL FATHER)
(KILL MOTHER)
(KILL YOURSELF)
(KILL YOURSELF)
(KILL YOURSELF)
(KILL YOURSELF)

these three old white men are handing out posters to me again that jesus loves me and is waiting for me—tell your jesus to have his arms open, ready for me to fall in them after i fucked a stranger behind the same church where they sing hymns for their saviour jesus—i’m sure he’d still love me would he? would he? tell me now would he? your silence says a lot. (YOU FUCKING EMPTY PIECE OF SHIT, WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT? YOU’RE SCARED OF ME LIKE I’M GOD, FINALLY.) GOD / JESUS / GOD / JESUS / GOD / JESUS / GOD—keep flooding my ears with them as you watch god spill out of my veins on the cold bathroom floor in crimson red (CALL 988 IF YOU ARE HAVING THOUGHTS OF HURTING YOURSELF / GOD IS NOT AVAILABLE TONIGHT)—he is fluid and he’s spilling out of me until there is no more god left in me, i am something far more bigger—emptier—so much emptier.

but don’t take my emptiness for granted—a monster big enough resides in this empty body of mine and what does it do? it spits bile at you fuckers and burns through your skin—have you ever ripped open your skin and realize how fucking horrible you are underneath your pretty skin and fashion? i laugh at god because the world is in my hands now, i’ve killed everyone that only ever brought pain and sorrow—i birth a monster and name it megalomania maniac manic, not god at the end because that’s what i embody. god isn’t a title, he’s the audience and he lives in my blood like heroin, (he’ll come back to life again when i die and i’ll go running to him like a lost child to take my pain away)—pain is a social construct, created for those who create only for them to create more. suffering is biological and tonight i am mechanical—unstoppable (FINALLY). but right now the world is mine—i am the creator and the creation—of my mania and the artwork of it hanging on the walls of your heart—omniscient of mediocritized religiosity you perverts wear over your rotten flesh. there is no god, i only know of myself who is barely myself. i laugh at my reflection, they called me a fashioned creation of a god that i have erased and somewhere in that smile, my red lipstick that tastes like blood—in there will you taste the erasure of myself. every scream of yours pharmaceutical, all these tears are made of silicone—nothing is real anymore, especially god—you didn’t come save me so i’ll save myself, god—through every blasphemous act that feels bigger than the pain you tried to give me—i will exist in this world only because i choose to; suffering is biological and i am only mechanical (god will humble you soon).

there is nothing above me anymore. there is no me anymore. (try calling god again)

there is no me anymore.
there is no me anymore.
there is no me anymore.

THERE IS NO ME ANYMORE.
THERE IS NO ME ANYMORE.
THERE IS NO ME ANYMORE.

(but let me tell you before i die—mania is better than any drug you could ever afford, it’s the most beautiful way to kill yourself because you die before you notice you’re dying—you are not in control anymore (YOU WERE NEVER IN CONTROL), it’s something bigger—mania is omnipotent—so do it—name yourself mania and sell yourself to these empty bottles and mr. nobody who holds the ticket to hedonism—give in to your desires—keep going—don’t stop even when your body begs—keep going—didn’t say stop yet—i know you’re heaving—i know you haven’t slept, but what will the world do without you? how will the world keep spinning? come on, keep going—MORE, MORE, MORE, MORE—just one more night—again—again—again—live fast, die young—KEEP GOING—AND—)

exhale.
no more.

buy me medications </3