I swear to the God I’m not quite sure I can believe in that it rains every time I’m sad.

It’s like Mother Nature collaborated with Mother Theresa

and my own mother fucking mother to (all) kick me

while I’m down. And because I can’t quite tell

if any of them would care if I drowned, I walk through puddles,

metal chains clamped around my ankles, hoping I may wander

into a puddle deep enough to consume me—


and I mean all of me: all 120 pounds of contempt and a little extra baggage

on my shoulders. But I know that my life isn’t that Pulitzer Prize perfect

so when it rains, I go to the doctor because I’m sure to drown when it pours prescription pills, bottled in capsules solely for me—it’s the only thing

I can call my own. (I can’t even claim my own emotions).

Each pill takes them away from me, but the doctor says the little “B”

on them doesn’t stand for bad attitude [or even] bipolar

(I’m not sure if I’m okay with saying this aloud just yet)


He says it stands for “beautiful” because there’s no way I could be beautiful without them. Even my mother says so.


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