Written by her captors

I had everything labelled,
neatly shelved —
dreams in airtight jars,
grief folded under old T-shirts,
ambition stuck to post-its above the mirror.

Then someone
(or maybe nothing at all)
poured blue soda all over my life.

Sticky.
Fizzy.
Fake-coloured chaos.
The kind of mess that creeps
into corners you forgot you had.

It seeped into my schedule,
bled through my plans,
made everything hum with a strange new buzz
I didn’t ask for.

I stopped making lists.
Started sleeping through alarms.
Wore mismatched socks.
Laughed during deadlines.
Cried for no reason in public washrooms.

Everyone said,
“Are you okay?”
I said,
“I think something spilled.”
But they couldn’t see the blue.

It wasn’t depression.
It wasn’t joy.
It was something in between —
a spill that wouldn’t dry,
a version of me I never intended to become
but now I carry a damp shirt in the rain.