Monday I was breaking down
Tuesday was fought from the ground
Wednesday was filled with self mutilation
Thursday I couldn’t care about creation
Friday was the day in the hospital.
Walking through the doors of emergency
My mind screamed with urgency
“to cut, to choke, to be lost”
while I spoke my eyes glossed-
over with the tears I shed everyday
fretting over every second of the week-day.
The doctors were afraid I’d go through
with the plan as I tread on mania, blue.
Bipolar disorder was a title I wear,
while medication is my love affair.
The gowns we must put on in 7 west
put a name on who was feeling best,
Instead of making us individual
they group us together until
a member of the outside single us out
or an episode begins; scream and shout.
Can you understand a life
that is surrounded by the knife
of remorse and depression?
I am sick, it’s a confession.