It was the slightest trace of consciousness
Adrift and passing without identity.
Not yet a thought. Not mine. Only a wisp
Of being still breathing inside me,
Filling the shallow edges of my lungs
With the cool and quiet morning air
Rhythmically sliding over my parched tongue
Which has just made me acutely aware
That I’ve once again failed in the attempt
To silence all that is known of myself.
The day may be new, but still I’m condemned
To rise up when I can and find the shell
That I’ll spin and pinch then load in the gun
To finally and once and for all get this done.
Bipolar 1 Disorder, Severe
Current Episode Depressed