Unmedicated

Unmedicated

 

Call me crazy, but

It just struck midnight and now I'm starting to crack

from the lack of sleep and the panic attacks

as I wrack my brain in self-flagellation

missing the sensation of your skin on mine

and the divine lies I tell myself -

As if you care to hear any of this?

 

Call me crazy, but

I wish I could say I want you to know how I feel

but I wouldn't wish

this anguish on my worst enemy because

my mind fights me every step of the way

and every day it's suicidal ideation:

Deep breath. It's over. Cremation.

Funeral. Wait, what did I forget? Oh yeah,

Wake

the next day having passed out on the kitchen table

waiting for a reply that never came,

doomed to another day of staring at the wall

because serotonin wrote a rain check.

Baby, bipolar is a bitch and I know too well

that this hell is enough to scare off anyone

but I am begging,

no, pleading for you to just give me the time of day

because chances are I am late for something.

 

Call me crazy, because

I know full well I am making mountains out of molehills, here.

This is a vain attempt to find meaning because right now,

this "meaningless" sex means more to me than

Shakespeare's sonnets, Poe's poems,

and Proust's prose put together,

cause I will do anything to feel.

 

This is an open invitation:

Call me crazy, but

I don't care who I am to you

as long as I am someone.

I will be your bitch, your backup,

your break glass in case of emergency boyfriend.

You can hurt me, you can use me and abuse me,

just kiss me while you do it.

Keep me waiting, keep me hating myself,

keep the fire burning, keep my bed warm,

just allow me to look you in the eyes.

 

So please,

Call. Me. Crazy.

Because crazy is a crutch that I can't stand without.

I can't stand the knowledge that this is all my fault

and my failures and fuckups are my own doing

and I'm screwing my future day by day

as the clock counts down to graduation

and I'm on my own not knowing my way,

how long will it take until I'm on medication?

 

I am spilling my guts, bleeding my heart dry,

and whipping my soul until it screams

"Please god can I 'sleep, perchance to dream?'"

Because as my pain leaves this pen

it stains my mind and the ink leaves scars

and I can no longer think

and my heart is clawing up my throat

as I choke back tears that I just need to cry

but I can't. Why?

Because that would be too easy.

Now I'm queasy

and hyperventilation is raping my lungs,

and it won't let me shout:

"How the fuck long until

I fucking pass out?!"

 

Call me crazy, but

now the switch is starting to flip

my ship's not sinking

and now I'm thinking that

the joke's on me,

I'm on the verge of bliss

The funny part is

I'm starting to get used to all of this.

 

Previous feedback:

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/47az3j/лайка/d0c

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/47dceu/untitled_ii/d0ci3l9