i.
I am the mood swings striking in the middle of the night,
keeping you nocturnal past three in the morning.
They call me mania, bipolar.

I am your misdiagnosis,
the ADHD pills that made you go
insane,
the tug of impulse when manic
becomes the new normal.

I sit on a throne of isolation,
friendships jumping ship,
chronic fatigue, dark thoughts:
depression.

I am anything you can do to feel good.

I let strangers in,
trust whoever possessed
the upper.

I am your freshest scars
and your furthest away.
Cigarette burns on your
forearms, knees.
Smoke in your lungs,
a rope
in the back
of your closet.

ii.
I am the second and third drafts
of your suicide note,
methodically saved
to your family’s desktop.
I am a cry for help, answered

iii.
I am the white walls,
the one window.

I am the charge nurse
who let you vomit into a trash can
and rubbed your shoulders
after you cried for hours.

I taught you everything
you wanted to know about survival.
Everything you needed to know,
you taught yourself.

iv.
I am a gentle reminder of life
when you walk through those doors:
the air will blow in your face
and everything will smell of carnival food.

—–

Kaitlyn Crow is a seventeen year old queer poet from Northern Virginia.  She is a survivor of bipolar disorder and has been writing ever since she realized that the words flowed better if she picked up a pen and put them on paper first.