You cannot tell her she's beautiful,
You cannot tell her you love her,
You cannot tell her she's your world
When she's at her best moments.

You may only tell her those things,
If you're ready for her to have those off days,
If you're ready for her to not always wear makeup,
If you're ready to deal with her mood swings,
If you're ready for her to be clingey some days and distant others,

You cannot tell her any of the pretty little comments,
Unless you can handle her
Alone at two A.M.
As she's struggling with life,
And wondering why

She is not enough to win her own internal battles

A promise is like a sweet wine
like a nectar by the ancient Gods,
the sweetness to hold on,
that warms your heart
and lifts you up.

A promise to be there for you,
a promise you will never walk alone,
a promise to stay in touch with you,

and yet such promises are like a breeze,
said today but gone tomorrow.
What once lifted you up
is pulling you down,
what warmed your heart
rips it apart.

For ****'s sake.

How did we end up here again?

The soothing, annoying word flickers on my blue-back lit screen and I am ****** back to the tumultuous moment when once upon a time it yelled bipolar.

And here we go again.

My thoughts flick, flit, floss between teeth made for biting and real meat. They need plaque, collection, to grow and accumulate mass to progress. But there my flicking thoughts go, flossing.

I've always struggled focusing, but I just got excitable, got manic, and it would solve everything. Mania was my monster, my red bull, and now that its sated and off to Wonderland...

I'm left here, face to face, with a twitchy white rabbit wondering why I would ever think to use my pretty little head when its such a good projectile into the sky.

I had always wondered, in those whispering nights, when my hands couldn't stop moving and my head wouldn't shut up, if something was wrong. But it was silly, I had two already, full of worry then full of poles. Couldn't be another, could it?

Of course, a Grace of Wonderland always knows best, and here we are. Another bottle to drink to keep me sane.

I wonder if my fingers will thank the capsules when I might stop biting them? Or my toes? Is this why my toes always twitch and dance, why they stand center-stage in so many of my mild fantasies? After all these years, the divas that my lower digits have become may not appreciate losing their star titles.

I just want to be fine. I want to figure out how to move beyond all the strange misfires in my head. How did I survive so long without a notice? Inflates my ego to know I should have been caught by now.

Guess just like the White Rabbit, despite my widgets and worries, no one can stop me from running when I'm madly, absolutely, refusing to be late.

Graces only knows to fight with fire and fists. Tis the state of my Wonderland, and perhaps now things will only get better.