Loving From the Poles

Even if I chose to be well do you really think you could tell the difference in me? I do as well as I can and I can’t show you the gray carnival I see around me in that unloving place; I can’t show you the rain that looks so lovely on the green blades of grass like magic baubles, crystal balls when I am in love with the world in my teeth. I understand why you have to go, I understand I can’t mirror that love I have inside–you could have tried to take it, I’d have let you steal it. I shouldn’t have to apologize to you that I can’t feel you when you touch me. I didn’t opt for dissociation; I didn’t opt to meet you when I am such an aftermath of abuse. You grew up in dandelions and cartoons, you never knew secrets and the pain of dark. I can feel the fresh breeze on my skin; I can see me as a new woman who discarded that sad, ugly girl. But you didn’t want to love her and she’s a part of me. Yet all I can think is I’m Sorry Im Sorry I’m Sorry. I’d love to wrap myself around you and tell you how scared I am and how brave I am, but I’ve tired you out I think. You say “maybe with some time…” and I gave you back your ring. Sometimes, when the great breath of hope exhales, I think I will always be alone. And I have to learn to make that okay. I can’t choose to be well but I can choose to inhale this “bipolar” disorder as a part of me; it’s who I am. In my eyes, someday, I’ll be enough.