Bipolar is Bored and Renames Itself
by Jacqui Germain
I have recently come to the realization that I will be writing “the bipolar disorder poem” for the rest of my life. There are hundreds of ways to say I am wrapped in my own bees nest. or My body is a haunted house that I am lost in. There are no doors but there are knives and a hundred windows. or My body has apologized to my body. My body is not sure if it accepts. or I am a river with a dam at its neck that has begun to drown its own fish. or I am a field setting itself on fire just to become the sun. or I am a newborn so obsessed with the birth, I throttle my own throat and hope for a repeat. or I am a ball of melted wax burying my own wick. or I am the flame melting my body down into a hard mess. or My eyes have learned not to believe themselves. or My eyes have learned the sky will be a red sea of winged teeth if you believe it to be so. or I am trapped behind eyes that recognize the demon in everything. or There is a demon in everything; I know this. or My brain is my own cracked windshield, my own bug-splattered glass mirror and I am driving towards the sunrise. or I am still driving towards the sunrise.



















