If you’re ever lucky enough to find a girl who is a hopeless romantic with a dirty mind, you should hold onto that. Because she’ll be yours at two in the morning and at two in the afternoon the following day. She’ll kiss you where it hurts and until it hurts. And that’s important. Someone who not only knows how to turn you on but also knows how to treat you right is someone worth a little something… and a little more than usual.
I thought I’d come on here and write out the end.
That’s what you could call it;
Or better, the closing chapter
To a brief,
Yet very potent period of my life.
A very heightened, very creative,
Yet doubly self destructive,
and unstable time.
Here it is:
Even though it feels more like decades.
I don’t recognize that gaunt girl,
Who wore the same clothes
Weeks on end, and rambled incoherently.
Who forgot to eat,
and denied that she needed help.
In and out of rehab centers,
Ever since those little pills,
Turned into bigger pills,
And then later into powder.
Since the pencil cases turned into sacks,
And stashes upon stashes,
That laid in my always dark dorm room.
When my downs lasted longer than my ups.
Because bipolar disorder is incurable,
And college frap parties,
and research papers only distract.
They don’t fix the chemical imbalances,
with a chronic mental illness.
In which a large part of the battle,
is convincing yourself that you have a problem.
That your mood swings aren’t normal.
And at 18, my definition
Of having these pills “everywhere” was nothing,
Compared to the true meaning of everywhere,
That I discovered at 24.
Everywhere, truly meant everywhere.
There was nothing else.
When a substance encompasses all of your brain,
There is no room for anything else to grow.
This is what desolate means,
I discovered in sophomore year AP English Literature.
I lived the reckless life I thought I wanted.
Fucked a lot of guys,
broke many hearts;
And my heart broken,
many more times,
than I did the breaking.
Not aways by people,
Mostly by things.
Sad songs, optimistic poetry.
It’s hope that crushes,
more than sadness,
believe it or not.
It’s easy to have your heart broken,
When you’ll hold onto anything,
You think will save you.
When any idea can be crafted,
by your lonely mind
into a solace.
You wait to be saved.
But you are your own salvation.
There was no secret to getting better.
I guess I just learned,
to be okay with boring.
There’s nothing wrong with calm Sunday nights.
And popcorn tastes better,
without the lasting taste of chemicals in your mouth.
And you know what?
There is something painfully wrong,
with needing synthetic currents running through your brain,
to make you feel alive.
Because it’s okay to feel unhappy,
and empty sometimes.
But when you’re not okay with yourself,
Bukowksi was right,
truly, nothing fills.
Not God, not drugs, not people,
Not even recovery
The voices in your head don’t stop,
and there aren’t enough pills,
In the whole fucking world,
To make you love yourself.
I’ve been to hell and back,
And I can honestly say,
I choose this.
I choose this.