I’m loose wires, twirls of yarn hair,
burnt-ash eyes swept from a stockroom floor.
I’m eighty percent paper, pink-thin skin,
litmus-blue for you.
Rub against my matchstick shin,
Wind me up, wind me up
take me for a ride.
My rag-doll lips are vigilant as vultures,
soft as weathered-leather and chard.
My kiss is a spill of cumin on soft
bread, spongy-warm, rising.
Some man patched my wounds
with slop from a bucket.
He milked me, swirled me,
spit me out.
Another burnt buttons along my back
with his cigarette,
said he could see my spirit, like stuffing,
puffing out. I was his child-bride.
Now, I’m yours to sew together,
your pile of groaning breasts and thighs,
a scabbed-map of slices. You can split me
down my scar-lines. Shave me.
Save me. Shoot what you want
into my veins. I’m a cloud pocked with rain.
Wind me up, wind me up,
dig your hands into my spine.
I’ll be your puppet, your glamour-girl,
your bitch-in-heat, your insane.
I’ll play twice-as-nice once the pills
float down this numb-ebbing wave.
I have time, so much time, for the fog
to burn off, the pollution to clear from my brain.
Can you hear the seagulls shriek swallow, swallow,
then check my tongue for a razor out of place ?
(They have trust issues.) Come see.
Crank the bars from the glass. Free me.
I’ll be your moon, your gun. Your edge to scratch on.
I’ll write every day.
Even though it’s hard to know
which one becomes the last. The light
here shines florescent as the waxed floor.
I haven’t been eating lately. I sneakily throw food away and pretend i ate it. Like my peach yogurt this morning (down the toilet). I lie and lie and lie and can’t stop. Mom says i don’t live in truth and maybe i dont but i dont have much alternative. I can’t even remember when i started chronically lying to my parents and being so freaking smooth about it. Every minute, every second my hunger pains crumple me – but they feel like winning like the pain translates to victory and honor. I was always kindof a masochist now wasn’t i? I don’t need food. I just want to be so thin and beautiful. I want to be able to fit into really beautiful designer clothes that don’t make size 12s. Collarbone and hipbone honored like a goddess.
My mom is furious at me but I can’t stop now. Not since i’ve been losing. I have to be 115. I will be. She thinks i’ll go back to the hospital again that I’ll be locked away with a key or shoved into an ambulance. I’ve never gone into an ambulance without being handcuffed first and I wont go without a fight that’s for sure.
I’m sitting in my world literature class right now, and we are talking about how in poetry images become something more – they become symbols and that we should always be looking and thinking – does it mean more? And I have been thinking. I want to find higher meaning. Not eating is like prayer to me – like being so empty that something more can fill you. But in the end, I’m just destroying something – the person that i used to be. I’m not sure if that person is beautiful or not, but she is real and being replaced by something more – by the god/goddess.
On my 21st birthday, i found myself in Carrier Clinic, a mental hospital, miles and miles from home – and alone, deserted both by Evan, my best friend and Steve, my boyfriend. Evan is the reason i was hospitalized in the first place. He wrongfully accused me of planning to hex him and those he loved and of being on drugs. Only one of these things is true and he seemed more concerned with the one that is not. From then on he wanted nothing to do with me, so naturally i shouted “I’m gonna fucking kill myself”, drove away to Walgreens and downed 150 Tylenol and 100 OTC sleeping pills. They eventually found me and brought the police but i ran like hell until i was handcuffed and held to the ground. Now i am truly and predictably alone with myself and my mind. I just got discharged today but while i was there i found myself aloof and disturbing, I had the most colorful flashback drug dreams about heroin and all i want to do now that i am back home is use but my parents took away my credit card and now i have no money. They also plan on periodically drug testing me which, albeit, isn’t the end of the world. It not going to stop me at least.
I feel sick tonight – the quality of night. The darkness seems to seep into my pores and turn me into one of the monsters that hides so cunningly in it. It’s cold out tonight too. I was just out smoking a cigarette and my dark yard seemed intimidating, I will have no more goodnight calls from Steve and i will never have the warm comfort of knowing Evan will be there to talk to. I have no hobbies and I’m not particularly good at anything. I fear that I will be alone forever. All my comforts have been stripped from me and my emotional state of mind is the equivalent of a cardboard box in the rain.
Being Bipolar and Borderline sucks.