Cake, Candles, and an Exit Plan

People fantasize about birthdays filled with glittering gifts, money, bouquets, and cakes.Me?I fantasize about mine being whispered as a posthumous celebration.I want my name trending with pity.I want the news to break that I didn’t survive the night.I want my lifeless body to be the wake-up call they never thought they’d get.I want people choking on regret, digging through every text, every silence, every skipped call, wondering how they missed it.“She was so excited for her birthday,” they’d say.Yeah. That’s the point. It’s hilarious….how visible the signs have been.The constant trips to the pharmacy, like I’m stocking up for a slow suicide.The pills?God, the pills. Six different ones daily just to feel like I’m barely functioning.Some for pain, some for the migraine that screams louder than my thoughts, and some for the body that feels like it’s slowly rotting from the inside out.But nothing for the soul. Every night I drown quietly in tears, rehearsing different versions of my exit.And “parents”? I don’t know what that feels like.Since I was 12 or 13, I’ve been the parent — cooking, fixing, shielding.Being the emotional landfill for everyone’s breakdowns.I became the “perfect child,” just to be compared to their friends’ kids and still lose.They always picked others….like I was just a shadow of a daughter. They don’t know my birthday. Not even the month.I lost 15kg in four weeks. You’d think they’d ask if I was okay.Instead, they complimented the weight loss.“You look better this way.”Right. Better dead than visible. Now I drink to silence the screaming in my head.I blackout just to feel something close to peace.Then I wake up, line my lips, and go cook for people,cook for themBecause if I can’t taste happiness, I can at least serve it on a plate. I’ve tried to write again — something happy, something hopeful — but every word turns black.Death wraps itself around every idea, every character, every ending.It’s like my mind is its playground. So yes, if you ask me what I want for my birthday?I want my funeral trending.I want whispers. Regret. Flowers I can’t smell.I want the world to mourn the girl they ignored to death.I want my birthday to be the day they finally remember I existed.Note:This was written a few months ago

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