of Manic and Post-Traumatic Stress
stand the clutch of women I keep closest.
After the assault, they usher me
toward the intangible. Let go, they say.
Can’t be strong always. Fit. Wail. Riot.
Go unapologetically mad.
Instead, I pop another Abilify. A Buspar. Ten.
No longer allowed Xanax, so I settle
for wine. And Benadryl. And Melatonin.
And wine. What they cannot understand
is the anatomy of a manic girl
breaking. No clean edges, no roads back.
Only bloodspatter, leak, voltage.
Sonic boom. Brushfire. Jail time.
Every day, a glorious and appalling
new way to burn down my own house.
Here, the white pill; here, the blue. Here,
the sherry, the roast, the chaser. The nicotine,
the kiss. Fill and keep filling. Swallow, swallow.
Keep the body occupied. Keep it from igniting.
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