[20:37]

August 10th, 2018

this is quite possibly my most important tattoo. it is positioned directly behind my “be present.” tattoo, because behind my mantra to always be mindful in every moment is my bipolar disorder. the sun: the highs; the moon: the lows. and, of course, my favourite constellation Cassiopeia, cursed for her vanity by the gods and forced to spend all eternity tied upside down in a chair with a mirror in her hand. some days i feel cursed, punished by the universe or god or many gods at once. this tattoo is always with me, even on days (like with my disorder) that i forget it’s there. it is my struggle. but more than that: it is me. it is a holistic representation of who i am. because, though i try every moment to be present and aware i am fighting a battle every second of my life. and i have to be aware and accepting of that, too. as i (in real time) speed toward mania, i have to remind myself of my life worth living goals. i have to work harder than ever to remain level, and grounded. but simultaneously: i am also amongst the stars. like Cassiopeia. i will always, always fight for a better and healthier life and i will always, always, make the best out of the absolute worst. in anycase, your support is appreciated. thank you to everyone.

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and in the dark we whisper things we’d never say in daylight, we sit on the porch and talk about the worst parts of ourselves and it feels so fluid and freeing.

im still here, i think. im still here and seeking that Great Big Romance ive wanted since i was a child. faced with it, i shied away, i broke my own heart before i could give you the chance.

see— this is what i do. this is how i am. a spitfire, an emotional sponge, scaring off future lovers and clinging to future abusers.

you are not the first, you will not be the last. this is a cycle doomed to repeat, over and over again. i am aching for something to heal me, but you can’t go around making doctors out of people who want nothing to do with sewing sutures upon wounds you created yourself.

the message is this: the message is received. i tie together the pieces ive lost in the explosion, sneak into your house to take back my heart, and i move on.

on to the next loss ill orchestrate.

an ode to my dead god

A PREFACE:
in hospitals, they don’t give you pens. 
                                                   just pencils. 
i hate the impermanence of writing
                                                   in pencil. 
                               as if everything 
could just be erased. forgotten. 
           i am used to scratching things out, 
angrily, 
                        until the paper 
rips. 

AN ODE TO MY DEAD GOD.

buoyed by
a catalogue
of existence, or, a litany
of Reasons To Exist,
my dead God and i
sit in conversation.

why?

i don’t need to say more,
God hears the rest before i speak it.
my dead God says nothing in return.
as if i should be grateful i was
caught red-handed, tears unshed
at my non-funeral.

i hate this pencil. it’s too small and
not nearly sharp enough.
there is no elegance in writing
with a pencil,
the words are thick and drunk,
blurring or slurring together.
i miss the days when they were
filled with lead, not graphite,
but thanks to the Herculean efforts
of one man i cannot hope
to poison myself.

why?

my dead God asked if i could stop
calling them my dead God.
i say i’ll stop when their people
stop using their name
to justify the death of my people.

when God stops being the reason
people can’t have rights.

when God steps in to stop
all this nonsense
happening today.

my dead God relents.

why?

my hand is hurting.
this poem is over.
i bet you wanted a happier ending.
ask my dead God.

i am borderline.

I am Borderline,
So I have no soul.
I am Borderline,
So I am a demon.

We are likened to,
—at worst—
vampires,
parasites,
cancers

We are likened to,
—at best—
conniving,
manipulating,
ruthless

I am Borderline,
So I am a black hole

— so i must be eradicated
— so i must be ejected
—so i must be escaped from

I am Borderline,
and when i was diagnosed,
it was a curse

They say,
“Do not let anyone a Borderline into your orbit on any basis”
(but do they know I agree?)

They say,
“If you have a relationship with a Borderline, they will ruin your life.”
(but do they know I agree?)

They say,
“Watch out for these people”
(but do they know I agree?)

“AVOID”
They say
“AVOID”
“AVOID”
“AVOID”

it’s funny,
since,
all i am
is a void.

I read a licensed psychiatrist state:

“People say that Borderlines can change but often times, they wreck havoc on their spouses, children and/or parents and the abuse lasts a lifetime.”

I have heard:

“Remember, they will never improve – no matter how optimistic and hopeful you are, that brief period of loving affection will give way to profoundly disturbing, explosive rage. Always.”

I have heard:

“Kill yourself.”

Borderlines are…evil
Borderlines are…dangerous
Borderlines are…bullies
Borderlines are…abusive

I am Borderline, and I am inhuman. That is what they say. I am Borderline, and I cannot be trusted. I am Borderline, and I am damaged goods—not worth anyone’s time.

Why is it,
That people can
—to some extent—
understand how depression changes a person’s behaviour?
understand how anxiety changes a person’s behaviour?

Why is it,
That ‘it is not them, it is their illness’ applies to all else
—But borderline?

I guess what I’m say is—is this me? And is this all you see?

the last ten days of august.

what could empty you?

          in the weight
of our divines
the un    thinking
deep within us
strokes of pure spirit
      our fleeting fall

labour — the early war;
                 original sin
in between the earth and sky
            is the shade
            of the galaxy
why limit sorrow?
why blank the source?
             conquered,
             we go on
and put life first

ignore the    remnant artifacts
                      merciless undoings
turned pools,
                      nudge    of time
ordinary notes of care
unleashed poisons
etched
into skin

history’s suitor to time,
         shards,
                      debris
remember   remember
           remember
the blank silence echoing

days go on,
        fewer,
               sleep escaping
crying out
                   it was a home.

cursed nights into mornings,
         who can make of this?
what once was theirs,
          whatever is left?

emptied, murdered, obliterated
             an annihilation
of the ego
              the anguish,
                     the anguish

eyes still seeing last touch
feeling
ancient alone abandoned
what is a year
              a month
               a decade
but a moment?

—lost and burned
            futile devices,
fervour’s writing

mailed to the void

and the sea?
        the sea?

the saltwater dead, my love,
the saltwater dead

the last great epitaph
of our love:
           i am nobody
           i am nobody
           and you
           are gone

oh, August, a season deceased,
tell me again
the hieroglyph
of your name

nostalgia

do i still hear your voice?
back of my head
sings songs of your words
sickly sweet
like honeydew drops
in a glass of milk

an old movie
playing on repeat
the bike wheel turns round
and round

life in a snow globe
shaken to my core
touching the ends
of my existence
seeking to reach
spring

i find myself asleep
in a green meadow field
under a starless sky

for the weary

we begin as small balls of clay,
with gentle hands
and a warm touch,
with our hearts planted
firmly on our sleeves
and a smile wider
than the widest canyon

we begin as soft sponges,
absorbing the world around us
filled to the brim
with the water of emotion
with minds capable
of dreaming up anything

we begin as constellations,
a blank page
ready to be mapped
ready to be made
into music

somewhere along the way
begins the first shattering
the first door slammed
the first back turned, unmoving
the first losses
the first mourning

somewhere along the way
some sooner than others
learn their heroes have turned to dust,
have left them behind,
have left them to live
on their own

somewhere along the way
the world teaches us to build
stone walls around our heart
that emotion is weakness
that it is wrong
to fall apart

somewhere along the way
children become adults
far too soon

starting over

i fell backwards into oblivion,
i let your hands take my soul,
my words were erased
by your touch
i cannot think,
cannot eat,
cannot do much of anything
but you run around
with your heart and body intact
and you know nothing
of my pain

bruised
bleeding
bereaved
i take all my broken parts,
and i begin again

on my mountain home

i stood outside your door with an open palm
and a smile on my face
i said, look i found your favourite flowers
one and three were clenched together tightly in my hands
i was vibrating at a frequency you couldn’t understand
but you always said you’d love me
so i thought you wouldn’t mind
if i visited you from the highest of mountains

instead the corner of your lips turned down
and your brows were furrowed
you ask me:
when was the last time i slept?
 the last i showered? or ate?
slept? showered? ate?
showered? ate? slept?
ate? slept? showered?
and when i said i didn’t know
you told me i shouldn’t come around here anymore,
that you couldn’t listen anymore,
that i had said the same thing
six times in a row
and now i was shouting
and the neighbours can hear
and you don’t like the way they look at us
when we’re together

i thought you would like me like this
i thought we could
take over the world like this
with me, buzzing and optimistic
instead of trapped within a dark room
and shying away from any light
i thought you would like me like this
like this
like this
like this
but you’re shutting the door
and you won’t let me say goodbye

i loved you so much i would have done anything you asked,
so when you asked me to dive into the ocean
i did,
even though i was afraid
but when i asked for you to come with me
you said you wouldn’t dream of it
you wouldn’t dream of it
you said you wouldn’t dream of it

you told me i had a winter heart
that i was cold
and all i would ever be was ice, ice, ice
you said the only thing i was good for
was giving people grief
you took me apart
and pieced me back together
the way you liked best

i told you the parts didn’t fit right,
weren’t put together properly
but you smiled and said you knew best
and i,
i loved you so much,
i would have done anything you said

{an excerpt from my book of poetry, beyond rock bottom, which I’ll be giving away for free for a limited time}