BPD

The horror is staring at you through the window of your workplace and knowing
You didn't have the strength to comb your hair today.

The horror is that I know the new girl is just a drug now,
But you'll need her soon, and she'll turn into a legitimate something.

The horror is that the same mental illness that makes it so you can't miss me
Is the same mental illness that made you end things.

The horror is that you were just a child when all of it began for you
You had no say over it.

You struggled to make eggs for yourself in the microwave and you
Got nothing but slapped for it.

You struggled to defend yourself against a stepfather twice your size in both height and breadth
And you were the one they threatened with a prison sentence

Fourteen is too young for fighting
Fourteen is too young for wielding a piece of cement against a full grown man

Five is too young to watch your father carried out of anywhere in a body bag
Five is too young to understand why this year your mother tried but she couldn't afford a Christmas present

The horror is that this Christmas you will still believe you never got one before
That your girlfriend is the first person to buy you anything even though you have proof all around of the people who love you.

The horror is that you will never fully feel it.
You will never fully know.
The icy coldness of alone will consume you because you cannot sit down and work through a workbook
Or trust a therapist
Or spill your guts truly forth to anyone without changing your mind in the morning

The horror is how so many would pour out their blood for you
Your brothers in arms
Your exes
Your admirers messaging your Instagram daily

I just.

They told me to write a poem to perform about horror
For the macabre variety show
And the scariest thing I thought of
Was what it must feel like inside your brain.