Borderline, borderland,

lamictal, speed, citalopram,

I love my crook psychiatrist.

$160 for five minutes,

a white slip,

and a glance at his green class ring,
the gaudy prick.

I’m fused with him.

One day of missed doses means
smashed dishes,

new ex-boyfriends,

and a cross carved on my stomach.
Doc says I’m Satan incarnate

and he is my gas-masked angel
wielding a morphine syringe.

He is my hero,

my healer,

my watering hole.

I am his kool-aid drinker.

 

Borderline, borderland,

bipolar diagnosis.

Doc adds it to the list:

dysthymia, PTSD, majorly depressing
outlook on everything.

A razorblading, sex-fiending, self-sabotaging Eris
with a sad boy complex,

leaving chemtrails of

motherfucking

Freudian bullshit.

Sheep-eater,

straight-edger,

hip hopping hypocricist

spitting dip drip from cracked lips.

 

Leif,

hyperventilating she-beast with tattoos and Timberlands, Iron Man,

psychopath,

they see right through me.

“Little Emily is still in there, isn’t she?”

Borderland