I am sealed in the waiting room, this glass jar of fogged breath, Three years pickled in diagnoses — ADHD, borderline — like labels slapped on a specimen, The spin inside a centrifuge, head whirling to blackout, sleep my only anesthetic. They dangle cures like bait — medication, therapy — but the hook is the wait, Unseen doctors barring the door, their signatures like razor wire. I age in this stasis, life leaking like sand from a cracked hourglass. Anniversaries stab: twelve years since the shatter, aunt's birthday a mocking cake, Ten looming since London's streets swallowed me, homeless ghost in rain-slicked alleys. Valentine's mirror taunts with eternal solitude; Sunday's abyss whispers escape. A friend dials alarm, three police pry my door in the night — kind intruders checking the corpse. She brands me selfish — selfish, selfish, fucking selfish — the word a bee-sting swarm in my ears. Selfish for the plea to end? For the chaos that devours, unmedicated, unhealed? I am not selfish. I am wreckage reassembled, survivor of breakdowns, streets, probes into my fractured core. In Planet Hope's garden, I am the daffodil thrusting through February frost, hushed thrice yet defying wilt. I am Sister Saga, teetering on the blade's edge. I am the Devil's Daughter, forging my reckoning. I am the bloom that refuses the grave.