Bipolar/ I am Not Ill
Self sabotage.
War in house. Front row seat.
Do you think I have not been here before?
I conversate politely with the
Girl in the mirror.
Is the assumption a lack of intelligence
or a lack of experience on my part?
my fault.
my laugh, musical. pained.
I am slipping again and craving pain.
Thinking of oozing wounds, picking scabs from hurtful things.
Again, my mind demands.
like pressing on a fresh bruise or the
first shower after a flesh wound.
Salting a paper cut.
Impulsively yearning.
Give it to me. The pain.
smiling and hungry I will lick love from a knife blade.
unhealed. gut clenching, head spinning—
Something inside whispers
you cannot hurt me.
Something in me smirks. satisfaction sinister & stomach twisting.
I know what this is. familiar.
To punish myself for believing I was better
is my blessed offering to lies.
On a midnight walk, saint of feigned stability,
I realize, in my head I have been dead for centuries.
tears streaming lungs heaving my soul was never born innocent, never born at all.
blind & lost, in danger, internal. back against an interior wall
Should I go?
Again. I am here again.
disbelief. I laugh at the expression on my own face through silent sobs
“I’m not ill”
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