#bipolarwritings

It feels like home

The carriage is rattling and I hear music in the thuds

I know the sounds

See I'm heading into new territory here and the familiar chaos brings me comfort

I will always be drawn to that 3am crisis call like a light from a cottage in a forest

It runs deep into my muscles and bones.

This surface wound I would wish to heal

It permeates my pores and it dilutes my blood.

This surface wound I slathered with cream and bandages

It has woven itself into my DNA.

How can something be a wound, when there is nothing to call healthy?

How can we compare something to health, when there is nothing to call healthy?

To those who haven't felt the brook

The stream that lies under my skin

The river that runs with neurotransmitters

A dopamine current drags me under

An ocean wave like an orgasm

This meaning only comes when they say I am unwell

It serves to remind me of the drought that is stability

Please, am I making sense?

Swallowing tablet after tablet

Theres not enough to satiate me

I am thirsty

Drinking wine by the bottle

Theres not enough to quench me

For you see

My hunger and thirst drive me

To what is inevitable

Are they just that?

Swallowing candy pills

Swinging from a rope of ribbon

Do I really want to die?

My thoughts say yes

Yet my heart says no

The cycle must end

The floor felt like clouds yet ice

Unable to move, to speak, to think

Overdose seems peaceful but the truth is far from this

Iain speaks to me, "please stay awake"

An IV drip running through my veins like treacle

I am the coping mechanisms I refuse to use

I am the meticulous plans of suicide

I am the dreams of police restraining me

My own thoughts