I wrote a poem about being Borderline

Borderline

I am a house with every light on, waiting for someone to come home, and every time the door stays closed, the walls begin to shake.

I feel too much, too fast, too deeply.

A careless word becomes a wound. A delayed reply becomes a goodbye. A quiet room becomes proof that I have been forgotten.

My heart does not whisper. It screams.

Love arrives like sunlight, warm and golden, and I stretch toward it with everything I have. But fear follows close behind, asking how long until it leaves, how long until I am abandoned again.

Some days I am a wildfire, burning through anger, grief, and panic. Other days I am ash, too exhausted to lift my head.

People see the explosion, but rarely the pain that lit the match.

They do not see the constant battle between what I know and what I feel.

I know you love me. I feel you hate me.

I know I am safe. I feel the world collapsing.

I know I am enough. I feel impossible to love.

And still—

I wake up.

I take the medication. I go to therapy. I apologize. I try again.

Not because the pain is gone, but because I am still here.

A shattered mirror still reflects a face. A storm still passes. A scar is proof of healing.

I am not my diagnosis. I am not my worst day. I am not the fear that follows me.

I am the person who survives it.

And after everything— the heartbreak, the chaos, the self-doubt, the endless war inside my own mind—

I am still here.

And that has to count for something.