Is This Mania ?

Breathing air that seemingly becomes so fresh Working endlessly on a project that determines my worth.
Going hours without eating Disappearing without a trace Reading theories about the fucking M&M characters!
I thought I was just happy.
Finally after months of being alive but not living.
I just thought I was better.
Healed.
But not eating takes a toll, My body shaking as I try to hold off for just one more second.
If I eat the happiness leaves.
The energy…the frenzy just leaves.
I am in love to the very thing that destroys me.
I guess it’s mania.

You are my favorite teapot, and I will love you even when you leak.

I will never forget the day I complimented you,
and instead of taking it, you assured me that you were not perfect
because you hate to do the dishes,
and you don’t see well when driving in the dark,
but darling, you don’t seem to understand
my definition of perfection,
for I find it hidden within all of your quirks.
You are like the polka-dotted teapot I once found
tucked in the back corner of a local shop.
You have smooth edges and the cutest paint job,
but you came at a price—the crack near your base;
I bought you anyway, and I hoped with all my heart
that you wouldn’t leak too badly.
Except, sometimes, you do,
and when you do, I wrap you twice over to stop your seeping,
and I go about my business.
You are never a burden, nor are you a hindrance,
and I will not dispose of you.
I may tell others after the fourth complaint
that I’ll simply put you on a shelf to admire,
but not to use,
though never for always.
Because your tea, somehow, tastes just…a little bit better
than the rest.

This is Not What I Expected

I stare out the window,
stand and watch the rain beat down
harshly on the rug spread on my patio;
It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

I sip coffee from a chipped mug that I broke
during my last move;
its temperature scalds me—
just like life.

By the time I finish my cup
and the day has halfway gone,
the raining stops;
So, I do as I always have.

I trudge outside,
hand the sodden rug over the metal furniture to dry,
and I make my peace that,
oftentimes, life occurs in such a way that I am both
the mess and
the broom;

No worries, though,
for I will always have the ability
to sweep myself back up again.

MANIAC

Today has been good.
I got out of bed. I showered. I got dressed up.
I was productive. I had coffee. I filed papers.
I socialized—flourishing in the limelight.
…I made a mistake.

Today has not been good.
The shower was so hot it scorched my skin.
When I was getting coffee, I almost hit another car.
While I was socializing, I crossed boundaries that I knew were there but didn’t care about in the moment.

Today has been manic.
I cried hysterically when I put on my ex’s favorite shirt. I didn’t stop until I was ordering my drink.
My productivity consisted of using up old art supplies by tie dying my bathroom towels at 2:30 in the morning.
I think I pushed away my best friend.

Today, I took my medicine. But today, it didn’t help.

Hurricane Marie

Below is a poem I wrote about a friend—who was also my roommate—after she got her bipolar disorder diagnosis in 2015. This was long before my own diagnosis, but I remember her getting her test results, coming home, and then sliding down the wall and sitting in the hall floor in silence for the remainder of the evening. I wanted to do anything to help—but I couldn’t.

We were never romantic, but I romanticized the work below because it seemed more impactful that way. She was, however, one of my best friends. About two months ago, I re-read this poem for the first time since receiving my own bipolar disorder diagnosis, and I let her read this work for the first time since its creation, too. When I did, and I was discussing it with her—just after a hugely depressing break-up that was the result of my having bipolar disorder and my partner not being able to “handle” that—I wept at the hopeful thought that someone could love me like this in the future, too.

And no, her name is not actually Marie, but she did give me permission to share this.


The shuffle of plastic against ceramic as I sit echoes through the open door and out into the hall.

When the haze clears, my eyes settle upon personal care items strewn across wintry laminate tiles—the color of which has been watered-down with the contents of each bottle, over and over again, at altered intervals. I sit her items back upright and into the places that she can never seem to find on bad nights;

last night was a bad night.

Peeking in as I pass by, bleach-stained rug in hand, she looks so pure. She rests on her stomach as curls cascade down the gradients of the cheeks I’ve grown so used to cupping, and her body remains spread across as much of our bed as she can tangibly inhabit at once. I drag myself, so used to dragging her, to the kitchen and clean. I wipe up all of her messes, bleach that godforsaken bathroom rug once more, and sweep;

she sleeps.

Then, I mop the bathroom floor—freeing her from having to take responsibility for any of the repercussions of the aftermath that is Hurricane Marie, for she doesn’t need to worry about the stress of cleaning up that which she cannot control.

By 9am, I’ve snuck back into bed. And just when I believe that the amount of love I feel for her is only overcast by my own cosmic levels of exhaustion, soft hands begin pulling at my shirt until her face becomes adjacent with mine;

she is worth everything.