Bipolar II

For the record,

I am myself. 

Even in the dark

with no mirrors, no clues,

I am myself.

I am not the feeling

of being buried alive.

And if I fall through the ice,

I am not my hypothermia. 

I am not the cruel absence of


that my heart

as a vacuum leaves

in my chest.

Nor the stitches 

that burst when 

it fills up



I’d like to hollow

my bones with a long handled


so that maybe

instead of sinking down

I could always

stay up.

The echoes of my ribs

rattling together

could leave me with some sort

of music

like chimes crashing together

in a hurricane. 

My body is a battleground

composed of sickly sweet sunshine

and the decay of rotting blood. 

I don’t see any blood, 

But I can feel myself bleeding. 

You see,

I knew who I was this morning

but it’s changed a few times

since then.

I rise up

and up and up and up and up 

and people ask me,

“How are you doing that?”

And I reply with

“I don’t know.”

Because it’s the truth.

But then,

I sink deeper 

and deeper and deeper and deeper

and yes,

sometimes I take a shovel

and dig myself


My mom, my sister, my flesh and blood


they say I’m a psycho and 


maybe they’re right.

But this psycho

loves them


would claw their way through solid ice

clots of dirt,

and steel rails

if I could

to get back up

on the surface of their humanity

and kiss the tears from their 


My bipolar has been holding my hand 

and squeezing it, 

and crippling me

and damn near swallowing me


Once it embedded the belief in me

that I would sprout wings 

and fly

and flung me from a rooftop

and even when my bones crunched below me

I didn’t mind.

I didn’t mind,

because I’ve learned

that my life isn’t about

waiting for the storm to pass.

It’s about learning 

to dance

in the rain.

This poem is about: 
Guide that inspired this poem: 



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