i feel what i feel
with such depth and aching despair
my chest is caving in
at times; i am filled with water

i'm a finely tuned banjo
in a sea of horned instruments
and no one wants to play me
or open me up
i'm so closed up

but on days when the mania is gone,
the depression isn't so bad anymore
i have my lovers and
the pills i eat with dinner
work

i'm swallowing down my pride
paying attention and trying to decide
where i can hide my nervous sighs
when i'm in a room of people
and still feel alone

i needed a break
i don't know how to find that
exactly
without the dependence
of chemicals

i am pursuing a lighter path
will it impress you?
my muscles ache
my heart aches
my brain... it aches

finding a way to end a poem
when you're still sad
is the hardest part
of trying to cope
positively

i can't end here either
because then anxiety swoops in
like a hawk
or some other bird she named
when we were under the trees

i'm swimming in a pool
of bad nostalgia
and beautiful synchronicities
i'm so sick of
the ups and downs

i don't want to
have these
bipolar
conversations
where i threaten,
and apologize,
and demand,
and apologize
again

i don't mean to take you
through the ringer
to make you see violence
and mood swings

i don't mean to scare you
when i don't take
my medicine
i don't mean to scare you
when i cry
for hours
i don't mean to scare you
when i scream
and punch things

i never meant to
do those things
like keying your car

i never meant to
drop everything
and go across multiple state lines
with no plans
at all

i never meant to hurt myself
until my arms
were coated in scars

for all of the times
i self-medicated
poked myself with needles
and drank away my pain,
i'm sorry
i shouldn't have taken so many xanax
you're right
i was wrong
again

i never meant for you to be
my caretaker
i hate those words
caretaker
i should be able
to take care
of myself

i'm sorry i am not managing this illness
i am very
very
ill

i'm sorry for the times
i couldn't get out of bed
couldn't eat,
couldn't move
couldn't go to work

i'm sorry for the times
i made tons of post-it notes
filled journals with ideas
bought calendars
and organization tools

i'm sorry for getting your hopes up
i really thought i could do it this time

i'm sorry for my diagnosis
i'm sorry i didn't understand how serious this is

i didn't ask to be bipolar
i didn't ask to be born

i make cases for myself
in my head
but they're all filed as
crazy

i'm sorry i was delusional
paranoid
and afraid

i'm sorry for the drug binges

i'm sorry for melting
fading
burning
and still coming back
alive

these low lows
and high highs

you've been through the ringer

when you're only supposed to be
support, a resource of compassion...
you had to be a caretaker

you didn't ask for this
and neither did i

i sometimes questioned if it was harder on you
to live with someone with bipolar disorder
than it was for me
to live with bipolar disorder

you wanted to save me
but you realized
that i can only save myself

now i'm drowning
and my lifeline is gone

i'm trying to learn to swim
i just hope i do it
before i sink

i'm sorry for all of the ****** poetry
i made you read

i'm sorry

drugs won't wake up one day
to so painfully say
they don't love me anymore

they won't say
it's okay
you have seven days, to pack your things

they won't bruise me
contuse me, or use me-
they won't abuse me

they'll linger on, holding
begging me to stay
gripping me tight

when i try to say goodbye,
they'll keep whispering
"i love you, goodnight"

drugs are my sweetheart
and everyone says she's bad for me
but i love her

she swears she loves me too
i can't breathe without her...
and i can't breathe without you

when i think of my red-haired lover,
i ache, i cry,
i feel so alone

but she, my drug, hums to me
tells me everything
is gonna be just fine

she caters to me,
to my fears, and to my doubts
reminds me that my way is always right

she tells me
another shot of dope
would make me feel better

she tells me
another six lines of coke
would wake me up

she tells me
the bars will make me forget
just like i want to

she tells me
that no matter what
it's all my fault; not hers

she makes me feel so sane
when i'm with her;
so insane, without

the drugs won't wake up one day
and tell me
"it's over"

they'll always be here for me,
even when i push them away
and beg them to leave

they'll always be here
with a helping hand;
we light flames and burn the bridges down

i hate them,
and i need them,
and i love them

if we're over,
if you're gone,
i won't be sober

you said we were
the classic love story
of loving an addict...

It looked like empty bottles strewn around my room and filling the dresser drawers... It looked like being kicked out of the best place I had ever lived, looking back, feeling the guilt in the pit of my stomach. It looked like the tears in your eyes... I saw shame in everyone's eyes like a reflection of my insides, torn up and beat to hell.

It sounded like the pain in your voice. It sounded like heart-wrenching sobs. It sounded like an 808 drum beating inside of my chest, far too fast. Like creaking sounds, and leaves crunching, the shuffle of the doorknob when I tried to break in. A car door opening, my fingers slipping in and out of bags... It sounded like desperation. Voices of reason I chose to ignore. My disease spoke louder.

It smelled like smoke and incense. It smelled like candles. It smelled like peach Ciroc. It smelled like cigars. It smelled like ramen noodles. It smelled like cigarettes. It smelled like puke and self-hate. It smelled like the scent of you on your t-shirt fading away.

It tasted like every bitter Xanax I shoved past my ******* teeth. It tasted like blood filling my mouth, and the ***** on the ground. Like ten thousand shots that were never enough for me to just put the ******* bottle down.

It felt like hands I never wanted to touch me. Like stomach pain, needle ******, full veins, and then numb, numb, numb. Felt like a broken heart and the bumps of the scars coating my skin. Felt like each punch and hit you ever laid on my head, my ribs, my legs... it felt like pain. It was pain... It was pain.

how many ER trips does it take to show that i'm serious? that i never came into this world ready to push forward? when i said i was the phoenix, i intended for you to know that i had to burn myself down to nothing but ashes. i still promise that i will rise from the ashes i made of myself, ascend, and shine so bright that i blind those around me from all of the horrible darkness and show them the light... i am here. i have purpose. i refuse to consume myself, wholly. i am not a part. i am the ever eternal presence. i can not be removed. when our souls come into contact, i am anew. i'm reminded fully of who i am. i hold responsibility, here. in the white space, i make the conscious choice to push forward. my eyes open, and i see things that even you don't.

i am here and i am aware. the water pours over my head, drips down my face relentlessly... a waterfall across my skin. i feel awake. i feel alive.

if i cut my hand open
and bled out
on to the page
for you
and you alone;
would you love me?

if i spewed
endless streams
of hideous
and beautiful
words;
would you love me?

if i dressed up
the right letters,
if i made them look
light enough
to hide the dark;
would you love me?

it takes
many months
fit into
many years
to drink your way to
to smoke your way to
to **** your way to
to lie your way to
to trick your way to
to swallow your way to
to consume your way to
to fiend your way to
to light your way to
to hate your way to
self-sabotage

it is wanting
everything
and denying yourself
everything
you need
to get there