dear somebody,

i don’t think it’s fair that only pretty people get to be loved

please keep that in mind the next time you see a cracked ribcage

and a broken glass smile

 

dear somebody,

have you ever tried counting the ceiling cracks instead of sheep?

i think that sleep is cold and gloomy things work better

i always fall asleep when i reach twenty-six

 

dear somebody,

i’m afraid someone might poison my teacup one night while i am sleeping

the doctors call it ipophobia and paranoia

the others call me weird

 

dear somebody,

i rearrange leaves in the park so they make pretty patterns

and i stand between them when the wind blows them all around me

did i mention autumn is my favourite season?

 

dear somebody,

if i told you something, would you keep it to yourself?

sometimes when i am bathing i count how many seconds i can resist without air

i think that sixty-one is my limit

 

dear somebody,

i know i exaggerate but i still think i’m making more sense that everyone else

i wanted to point a gun to my throat and fire

just to know what death tastes like.

we used to

sit down by the beach and

grab sand with our hands

watching the little corals

slip away

we used to

sit down by the lake and

sprinkle water at each other

watching the little drops

slip away

we used to

sit down by the road and

watch cars passing by

blurry pieces of metal

slip away

we used to

sit down on my bed in

the dark when midnight

sing songs to sleep and

slip away

we used to

we slipped away.

you’re worth nothing

psychotic leader

your little playthings

aren’t yours anymore

inhospitable to generous

and cynical by heart

(valium rules my mind

while liqiud amber runs outside)

and

little sparkles in your eyes aren’t diamonds

just light playing with reflections

and

your voice is not pure gold when singing

just sound waves floating trough the air

and

your body isn’t yours to trash it

mutilate and destroy

the ultimate target

is it?

What do I look like?

A shivering piece of porcelain,

painted with colours stolen from a rainbow

I wish I never shattered that mirror

But habits pull me back just in time

Before I put it all together

 

What do I look like?

Like shattered porcelain,

one piece red and one is blue.

I wish I never dropped my chances.

When they fall they fade.

If they broke I’d glue them back together.

 

What do I look like?

Like a tiny piece of porcelain,

crashed into stardust.

And they say the town has turned quiet, and ugly, and deserted, darling, that it’s going to be a long, cold winter. I’ve learnt that missing is worst when someone has slept like a child through an ice cold winter.

We sat on the top of the lighthouse, the winter sea glistening under our feet. Shoulder to shoulder (because we’d never hold hands) , your eyes turning into melted amber glass as we gazed at all the bright white stars that prevented the sky from turning pitch-black. I watched you in a way the lost watch their hope elude; so close, yet so distant. You turned to me, and I flinched. “Dorian,” you started, turning to me, “you know, they say it’s going to be a long, cold winter.” The sea seemed even darker.

That night I had a nightmare for the first time in my life.

You’re my hero because you dare to be honest, you’re my hero because you’re just as weak as I. Come and help me, I need you again, again, again…

By Thursday seven people had moved out of town; they said the winter was too cold to bear. I watched your bitter smile as I told you that, and I knew you were alright; you were always alright. Friday the roads were closed down when I tried to reach you, and the telephone line was cut down. I sat in front of our fireplace, wishing the flames would melt the town forever. Saturday you came by and took me to the lighthouse again. The sea wasn’t glistening anymore. I think it lost its glow the day you told me about the Winter. We sat together, fingers touching, your head resting on my shoulder. “Dorian,” you murmured, “you’re the only honest person I know.” Your fingers were cold.

That night I had a nightmare for the second time in my life.

And you know that the town is exactly as the town has always been, waiting for a long, cold winter. And you say that missing can be learnt to live with sometimes, through an ice cold winter.

By the end of the month fourteen more people had left the town; they said the winter was too long to bear. The next day you took me to the coast to watch the seagulls fish in icy water. You kissed my temple, and we just sat on the top of the lighthouse, quiet for an hour. The darkness thickened around us, and even when you pointed out the aurora, I saw nothing but the starless sky. I wondered when the beauty had been replaced with simplicity. I’d never dare to ask you anything, hoping that this way the winter would end just a little bit sooner. “Dorian,” you whispered, almost inaudibly, “you know it’s like it’s always been.” I remembered about the Winter, and it made me vomit. We’ll always be waiting for that long, cold winter.

That night I had a nightmare for the last time in my life.

scene i: forest, seven million light bugs in the air
you hold my hand and tell me it’s okay
it’s okay to be lost and confused and stand still?

scene ii: the steel mirror on that dusty wall
in that dusty cottage, between those dusty books
all that’s left of me is steel, steel, steel

scene iii: snow is a rare sight these days
i burn my fingers every time i try to cool
snow does not survive in the desert

scene iv: lake, seven million fish around my feet
i’m slipping and drowning and trying to breathe
i know i can swim; i know i can’t swim

I’m sure all of you are familiar with the bipolar disorder, possibly even more than I. But that doesn’t change the fact that I’m living it.

When manic depression is mentioned, people usually think about depressed, angry individuals who tend to change their mood every five minutes. To those I say “fuck you”.

Bipolar disorder, for me, means that I don’t know how I feel. It means I can’t be ever sure if a thing makes me truly happy, or if it’s just an illusion.

To me, it’s hell.

Yesterday, I had a low episode.

I fell asleep at half past four in the morning, crying, not knowing if I’ll be able to make it through the night, let alone go to school. At that time, I wished I could call E. (Because, love, so far you’ve been the only one willing to support me through it. Saints do not deserve you; why do I?)

Yes, I am on medication. It is common knowledge that manic depression can be… “cured”, so to speak in a matter of years (or even less). The sad truth is, it doesn’t happen nearly as often. I might spend all my life feeling like this. On the other hand, this could have been my last episode. Yesterday, though, I had no hope left at all.

Explaining the other title is a little more difficult. It also means explaining exactly how much of me is defined by the bipolar disorder, and how I am affected by it. I’ll work my way to that backwards, though, in hopes of presenting things a little more clearly.

The reason WHY I don’t tell people I’m bipolar, is because of their attitude.

Not the judging, I couldn’t really care less about what people think about me. It’s the patronising.

The thing that angers me, is when people equate my disorder with my whole personality.

Yes, I am bipolar, but I am so, so, so much more.

I am a geek, I am an artist, I am an altruist, I am a nihilist, I am a horrible singer. I am bipolar.

A couple of days back, an acquaintance said to me: “Yes, you did bash me pretty bad, but you’re bipolar, so I guess you didn’t really mean it, and it’s OK.”

At that point, all I wanted to do was to smash his face into the nearest wall, bipolar style.

Just because I am bipolar, just because my ups and downs are more extreme than yours, it doesn’t mean that anything I do or say is invalid. I would just as much be annoyed at you if I weren’t in a bad mood as I am when I have an episode. I am not saying “I hate raisins!” because I feel down, I am saying it because I hate raisins and feel a bigger need to express it.

Before you say that to one of your friends, think about it eight times, and then shut up.

I am bipolar, I have valid opinions.

The two aren’t exclusive.

I would like to tell you something that’s on my mind
Look, I’m too afraid to speak of truth right now but
One day I might be tired of chasing false dreams

I am how you made me
I drink liquid pearls to stain my mind
Every day I’m slipping glass shards out

I’m a mouth full of feathers
And a history rewritten
A voice that only haunts the tinted

I whispers to the cracks and whistle to the wind
I tell tales of calamity and drowning
Hoping that tomorrow, I’ll be forgotten

i built my castle in the clouds

only i could have a resting spot at night

i hold my wishes on silver strings

and yet it never comes

I could’ve sworn I’ve heard your panting somewhere in the hallway.

How could’ve I mistaken something so gentle, yet intense.

Like I haven’t been the one to suspire the same breath as you did in so umteen moments.

I’d always tangle with your saltire neklace, which I thought you looked oh-so-teering with.

Subsequently, I noticed saltires on your wrists and ankles too.

“Why?” I started demanding out of you, liquid pearls rolling down my cheeks.

“Are we not enough?”

“We are too much.” You’d respond, your face evincing nothing but a fake smile.

And I knew I lost you long before you were gone.

It commenced with the allready infrequent, shy “Hi.” becoming an occasional glance and a sulky smile that looked like your pluperfect supple lips were stitched together.

And the even rarer finger-flirt, when we secretly held our hands together while watching snowflakes fall down to the ground. I loved your fingers tangling with mine, teasing and forcing me into a bitter-sweet smile, knowing it won’t last for long.

I loved how you told me I was honorificabilitudinitatibus and ophelimitous even if I still don’t have the slightest idea what you meant by it.

You had that ability to appercept just about everything you sensed.

I could only wish I was half as sharp as you were, but you told me my looks made up for it.

It made me feel shallow.

I made up thousand of slumber party scenarios in my mind. It didn’t matter we were always up untill four in the morning, crisp voices long gone cracky and whispering. I couldn’t fall asleep unless you murmured lullabies in my ear, even though you thought you were tone-deaf. I though your voice was just perfect.

You once told me that life is just a painting we’d draw by ourselves. I told you you colored mine, but you’d just laugh and say that I should focus on my life alone instead of trashing it.

You looked too pretty, even though you never saw yourself that way.

I’d sometimes brush my fingertips against cold windows when it was raining outside.

Maybe we were too much.