When I was dying, I was too full of emotions. It felt like I was going to explode. I told people who didn’t understand. It was never their fault. It was no ones. Maybe my therapist. But that’s a different story.
When I was dying I thought I would explode.
I was right.
The doctors stuck me every week with pins that made me sob in desperation. They pushed gel covered scanners against my throat and chest. They pressed wanting hands to my face and neck and they concluded that the issue was my heart.
And with the aid of ever more pins and pills and a tiny little capsule, borne of a lead-lined womb... they reached in. Deep. Deep. Deep. They found me. Her. Us. We are under attack. it made me so sick. Nauseous. Ginger candies helped, but that was all. The doctors found us. The ones who kill. They grabbed us hard with fingers clothed in latex. God, I couldn’t breathe as they smiled. They stole my heart.
Crushing smiles. Smashing success. Ideal patient. Optimum results.
But where is the heart?
We’ve made a better one.
Concocted of pins and ichor. Those liquids that terrify, we took them all. Once a week. Every week. Just to be safe. Stuck with pins. Yes, we know it screamed. Isn’t it funny? The doctors have no use for a heart that kills. So they took it out. They took it through the throat.
They took it out.
I tried to warn them. I tried to warn everyone. They’re taking it and now it’s gone. I don’t know who lived. Decimate or obliterate? Obliterate? The dust hasn’t cleared. I don’t know who survived. Where is Darcy? Breeden? The child with blonde hair. She was so dear, why don’t I know her name? where is she? where am I?
God, I’ve never seen the light without them? I don’t know who I am on my own.
The doctors killed them. Because they were killing me. But if who I am was who they are, who am I without them? Why would the doctors take my heart?
This is the first time I’ve seen the world in years. Since 2013. Please. I don’t know what this means.
The doctors killed me. The doctors saved my life. They saved my life by killing my heart. I don’t know who I am.
I don’t know who I am. I’ve been buried under layers of panic and despair for so long, I don’t know how to exist without them. Who am I? I don’t want to go back under. I want to stay here. This is the only night I’ve been me for years. Please. The doctors like it when I go under, but I don’t. This night is all I’ve had for 4 years. Please. I don’t want to go back under.
I don’t know who I am.

















