I want to scream. I want to scream so loudly that the old woman next door calls the police. I want the veins in my neck to pop and my fingernails to dig into my balled hands. I want my eyes to squeeze shut so tightly that tears spring from their sides. I want all the frustration, anger and sadness that has been rotting in my belly as far out of me as possible.

But I live in a city. Where can a seething girl go to scream in peace?

Nowhere.

And so the city that brought me to this point wins again.

I imagine the poison of self-doubt that’s afflicted me since I was laid off as a frothing liquid that courses through my limbs without mercy. If I could suck it out like you do with a snake bite, I would. I would suck it out, spit it on the floor and then step on it — just for good measure.

But I can’t physically syphon this feeling out and I certainly can’t scream at the top of my lungs in an apartment building. But I can write about it… and you know what? As the poison leaks from my fingertips, it feels just as good.