Dear Ma, again.

Dear Ma. I am writing to you again. I'm feeling sad again. I don't know how to fix it this time.

I’m feeling sad again, Ma. I don’t know how to fix it this time. I can’t suffocate this screaming voice within my lungs and my mind, Ma.  It’s an echoing boom box, haunting and shivering and help me Ma, I’m not well anymore. These clothes are itching me and my skin is burning. I can’t write anymore, Ma. My pen isn’t working and my hands aren’t working; I feel numb. I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I’m infected with this disease that keeps spreading, I see it in my toes, Ma! It’s growing like vines and I see it twisting and strangling my veins, Ma. I’m sick, help me. My body is a construction site and this thing in my head is the wrecking ball. Why am I bleeding, Ma? It’s everywhere and I can’t wash it away. There’s blood beneath my nails. The knife slipped, I swear Ma, but I needed to turn off the pan. The onions are still cooking, Ma. I see the flames. I don’t know if I’m making this up. There’s a flame in my head and my heart and my fingers, Ma. I burn everything I touch and I don’t want to hurt anyone anymore. I hurt myself, Ma. I didn’t want to but the onions are still cooking. They’re burning now. The smoke alarm is so loud Ma; I don’t think I can hear anymore.