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 that reminds 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 — like where I put my keys or what day it is or whether I actually spoke 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 my breath leaves me.
Before I vanish.

And instead of offering a hand,
they hand me more.

More projects.
More pressure.
More impossible expectations dressed as “quick wins.”

Like if they keep me busy enough,
keep me spinning fast enough,
I won’t notice the door behind me.
I won’t see the lock.

I won’t even think about leaving,
because I’ll be too tired to remember I wanted to.

So I sit there, eyes glassy, skin twitching,
“Believe” by Cher crackling through my AirPods like a joke the universe won’t let die.

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 wants to run perfectly.

And they throw another wrench.
Right at my face.

And 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.

But no one asks what it costs.

No one sees the way my cat paces by the door,
waiting for the version of me that used to toss the string toy around after dinner.

No one sees the piles of 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 off caffeine, crumbs, and shame.

That when I do lie down, I don’t rest —
I just disassociate under the weight of my own fucking failure.

They don’t hear the thoughts circling 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 care that I stare at the screen until the words blur,
until the cursor mocks me,
until I feel my heart thudding in my ears like maybe this is it,
maybe today I finally break loud enough for someone to notice.