The Burnout Trap

They don’t want you well. They want you obedient.

I’m elbow deep in the mess of it.
Another Outlook invite drops like a slap across the face.

No subject line.
No warning.
Just that sterile little ping reminding me I don’t belong to myself anymore.

I tell them I’m burning out.
That I’m tired in a way sleep can’t fix.
That I’m starting to forget things. Little things. Scary things.

Where I put my keys.
What day it is.
Whether I actually said the words out loud or just screamed them in my head.

I tell them I feel like I’m dissolving.
That I need to slow down.
To catch my breath before it leaves me.
Before I vanish.

Instead of offering a hand,
they hand me more.

More projects.
More pressure.
More impossible expectations dressed up as quick wins.

Like if they keep me spinning fast enough
I won’t see the door behind me.
Won’t notice the lock.
Won’t remember I ever wanted to leave.

So I sit there. Eyes glassy. Skin twitching.
Believe by Cher crackling through my AirPods like a joke the universe refuses to retire.

Do you believe in life after corporate.
Do you believe in life after watching your dreams pack their shit and walk out the back door while you nod through another sync with a manager who doesn’t remember your last name.

I feel like a mechanic with both hands full.
Grease up to my wrists. Fingers cramping.
Still fixing a machine no one wants to maintain but everyone expects to run perfectly.

They throw another wrench.

When I don’t catch it.
When I flinch.
When I break pace.
They tilt their heads.

Confused.
Disappointed.

Like I used to be better.
Like I used to hold it all.
Like I was supposed to be superhuman.

Like I always have been.

No one asks what it costs.

No one sees my cat pacing by the door,
waiting for the version of me who used to toss the string toy after dinner.

No one sees the laundry colonizing my apartment.
The dishes curdling in the sink.
The way I brush my teeth in silence because music would make me feel something.

No one notices I haven’t eaten a real meal in four days.
That I’ve been living on caffeine, crumbs, and shame.

When I lie down, I don’t rest.
I disassociate under the weight of my own failure.

The thoughts circle like vultures.

You’re weak.
You’re wasting it.
You used to be magic.
Now you’re a ghost with a job title.

They don’t see me staring at the screen until the words blur.
Until the cursor mocks me.
Until my heart thuds in my ears like maybe today I finally break loud enough for someone to notice.

It’s not a lack of strength.
It’s the weaponization of it.

They see I can hold it all.
So they give me it all.

If I don’t complain, I’m fine.
If I smile, I’m good.
If I deliver, I’m okay.

When I say I’m drowning,
they act surprised.
Like I betrayed the image they painted of me.

And slowly, I disappear.

Not in flames.
Not in a dramatic exit.

In quiet, invisible pieces.

Slack status still green.
Smile still polite.
Spirit rotting behind a glowing rectangle.

Cher keeps singing.
I really don’t think you’re strong enough.

For the first time, it doesn’t feel like an insult.
It feels like permission.

Because maybe strength isn’t swallowing it all.

Maybe it’s not about how many plates you can keep spinning.

Maybe strength is saying
fuck this.

Maybe it’s setting the wrench down
even if your hands are trembling.

Letting it fall.
Letting it crash.
Letting them hear it.

Loud.
Final.
Unapologetic.

Then walking out.

Not because you’re broken.
Because you’re awake.

The match has been in your pocket the whole time.

The fire they feared is already lit.

The only thing left
is to walk through it.

// Scorpio Veil

This isn’t burnout.
It’s the moment you stop apologizing for surviving.

The sound of the wrench hitting the floor.
The silence after.
The footsteps toward the door.

And the soft thud of your cat jumping off the windowsill,
ready to follow you back to your life.