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.