this is not a poem, or a rant, or an article, or a piece of art.
this is a scream from the bottom of my heart.
like our times and justice and system, it has no structure or scheme.
and it doesn’t end on a high note, happiness is a distant dream.

months and weeks and hours have merged into a monolith.
my phone rings with a call for help, or an invitation to another funeral.
time became a currency I exchanged with oxygen cylinders.
and transactions became a loss of lives lost on ventilators.

I’ve been given various labels. helper, angel, patriot, saviour by...