holding a new hand after 3 years of the same familiar fingers curled around mine is a concept i never would have thought i needed to master.
his hand isn’t yours;
his fingers don’t meet mine like yours did,
but holding his hand makes me feel wanted,
something you never made me feel these last few months.
i’m always going to love you,
but i think i’m starting to fall in love with a new hand grasping hold of mine.

i always asked you to take me to the museum,
just so i can look at everything that fascinates me.
but you never took the time to take me there,
to do something with me that i’ve always wanted to do.
you never took the time to make me happy with a simple $9 ticket and time spent with me on a saturday afternoon.

i met him for the first time,
and he held my hand smiling and laughing at me as i showed him everything that interested me.
giddy and as carefree as a child,
that’s all i’ve ever wanted.
to be brought to a place that i enjoy with a person that i enjoy,
but i guess seeing me happy wasn’t on your to do list in this lifetime.

i hope you miss how i read in the car on our road trips,
how i gave you a hush and a smirk when you talked as i read an interesting paragraph.
i hope you miss looking for me in your concert crowds,
how you raised your eyebrows and saw me laugh,
singing along,
your biggest fan out of everyone in the tiny room.
i hope you miss my kiss,
my touch,
my ****.
i hope you miss how it drove you wild,
‘cause i sure as hell know it did.
i hope you miss my breathy moans on your mouth,
how i dig my nails in your back.
i hope you miss me like i miss you,
because i want to go back to you,
but i know i can never do that.

i am so tired of this body i made my home in.
i wish i could rip it to shreds,
cut it into a million little pieces just to stitch it back together something new,
a new broken frame glued back together.
i wish every one of your kisses made feel beautiful again,
but instead of sending every self hatred fueled demon away,
your kiss just makes me feel worthless and used,
a burden you keep around because you like how i ****.
i am so tired of this body i made my home in,
a used shell that i wish i could throw into the ocean for another creature to find solace in.

maybe i’m so scared of being cheated on because she kept it a secret for years and we believed it
(please don’t keep secrets from me, i know when you do)
maybe i’m so scared of being lied to because i believed every lie that came out of her mouth and when the truth came out i broke
(please don’t lie to me, i know when you do)
maybe i flinch at raised voices because yelling meant a fight and a fight meant running away (please don’t scream at me unless you’re screaming honesty, i need you to)
it’s eating me up inside and i’m becoming nothing while knowing nothing
maybe you don’t need me
(i don’t need me, too)

if you look up the definition of “bipolar” in the dictionary, you’d find my mom’s name screaming loud and proud in big fat letters.
you can say you’re bipolar all you want,
think it’s a cute ******* self diagnosed disease you can use to explain your mood swings,
but you will never understand how terrifying it is.
when from one moment you can hold your mom’s hand and watch movies with her,
the next she’s screaming that she’s going to **** herself, a knife turning her knuckles white.
bipolar disorder isn’t a rom com where the sick gets better in a nice little mental hospital,
it’s a horror film filled with blood spatter scenes and a not so happy ending.
but the scariest part of it is that when you check the definition again,
you’ll slowly start to see my name appear.

you tell everyone you are fine.
you are taking your meds.
you are smiling and laughing
you are agreeing to *** because sometimes it’s painful and you can’t hurt yourself anymore.
you are saying “have a wonderful day” with a smile while you work.
but the nighttime hits,
and you’re in bed numb.
maybe you decide to take an extra sleeping pill to knock you out,
but instead it just makes you high,
and you’re okay with that.
you try to tell someone that you are not okay.
they don’t seem to care. they don’t want to help.
your dog ends up coming into your room,
and you use her fur as a tissue to soak up all the tears that fall.
you whisper between sobs,
“i am not enough”
“i am not enough for him”
“i am nothing”
“i don’t want to be here”
“i don’t want to be here”
“i don’t want to be here”
she just puts her head down and doesn’t seem to care either.
you have nothing.
you have nobody.
would another cut really matter?
would killing yourself really matter?
you’ll put that smile back on your face the next day.