Poster Child

Mental Health

31 Aug

I’m a poster child,
bipolar.

Print me in high res,
gloss laminate, trim
the edges neatly.
Hang me somewhere
clinical
beneath fluorescent lights
and a sentence about awareness.

Make sure you use the good photo.

The one where I’m smiling.
The one where my hair behaves
and my eyes don’t tell you
how many nights I’ve been awake.
The one where I look employable,
palatable,
inspirational enough
to make suffering look like
something you could survive before lunch.

Put me on the poster.

It doesn’t define you.

Except…
sometimes it
fucking does.

Sometimes it answers questions
for me,
spends my money
for me,
makes plans
for me,
promises impossible things
with my mouth
and leaves me stranded in the
wreckage
when morning finally rears its ugly head.

Don’t put that on the poster.

Too many words.

So crop it.

Crop out
hospital corridors.
Crop out
medication packets
and paper cups
and questions about whether
I know where I am.

Crop out
“I’m worried about you”
…

God,
I can be
MAGNIFICENT!

My mind—
my mind becomes a cathedral
every bell ringing at once.

I have never been more alive.

I have never—

Please—

I have never—

been—