Outside of the destruction this illness has beholden me to,
I find myself wondering,

is there is a part of me still left?

Outside the seemingly endless strings of purchases
of books,
trinkets,
miscellany items,
that I found absolutely necessary at the time to own,

Outside the relationships where mania
seductively shrouded itself as love,

Outside the serendipitous misadventures,

Outside the compulsive longing to be ******
and disposed of because I viewed myself as an empty vessel to be
filled-in,

Outside the reckless dive into drugs,

is there a part of me still left?

Outside
I look after the storm,
and within my total being,
I ask myself
which I,
is I?