He turned

to his best friend and said in a deep tone, “The best side of her you can witness is that fumbling, tipsy side. The one that has had one too many drinks,” he emphasized with air quotations, his fingers trembling.

“The person that comes to light in a drunken state, the one who is utterly vibrant and free.”

He leaned back, his shoulders sinking into the old couch as he took a deep breath. His eyes closed for a moment, inhaling memories.

“She’s so close and intoxicating. Her motions become fluid and her hips rhythmic. You don’t have to have a single sip to become drunk off of her overwhelming ideas. Her absolute vulnerability, and all of the articulated movements of her mind. Her hands may clasp at your collar, drawing you in closer.. to her level.”

He leaned forward now, his hands coming up to his eyes as they gripped his brow for an anchor in the storm.

“I’m telling you man.. the best part of her spills forth.. splashing upon your shoes like the overtipped bottle on the table. You may feel a flash of anger, an impulse to wipe it all away. But, that hesitation.. that fleeting moment of frustration. It’s.. the best part of her.”

It’s the best part.. of her.

The shadows creep up and expose themselves.

Dancing across the floor in waves.

It’s raw. It’s real.

The only show worth watching.

“That maroon lipstick.. you will wash it away lovingly.”



Bipolar Disorder

is very much a part of me. An old friend clasping their arms around me in the grocery store. The one I saw… the one I ducked behind a shelf to hide from unsuccessfully.

There are moments I fear that it consumes me. Mustering up the strength to sip my morning coffee. Fighting the urge to buy a plane ticket to nowhere. There is no in between. Just those fleeting moments where both parts consume me.

That is where I am. This is where I lay. Alongside the depression and pull of perfection into a whirlwind of anxiety.

I bury my face deep into the pillow of my emotions. Scared I will slip through the soft cracks; terrified that my fingers will fumble onto an unraveling thread. And I will yank. Draw back my hand… and sink into the hole beneath the bed of my mind.

What’s down there?

I don’t dare.

I don’t care.

I don’t leap from the fragile trembling tight rope to the building before me for fear of the darkness beneath me.

If I did, would I find the latch to the withered window? Or dangle my feet for an eternity?

This heart of mine aches… this is where I write my unremarkable words.

Mania is coming…