you say feminist like if i’m going home
with you tonight. you say feminist like if
we flirtin’ all night. like if..life if i’m gettin’
wet for you tonight. oh, you ain’t know?
it’s the sahara desert down there.
you say feminist the same way you
say babygirl and mami. you know i
like that shit. you say it like if..like if
you’re waiting for me to call you papi.
the only man i call papi is my papi.
the man who gave me life and wings to fly.
you say feminist in the same breath you
degrade women. like if..like if i’m supposed
to take that as a compliment. like if a man
runs up on her, you expect me to say that
she deserves it cause her skirt too short.
oh you ain’t know? i like wearing the skirts
and the dresses that hug the curves i was
blessed with. does that mean i deserved it too?
you say feminist like if gold drips out your
mouth and i’m supposed to swallow it.
thank you for the flaunting, i’ll see myself out now.
i never talk about this. being bipolar. because you automatically think that i’m happy one second and really angry the next. being bipolar is staying up all night researching the 3 states i’ll most likely move to, knowing the exact towns, looking at homes, calculating the money that i have/i’ll make and see if it’s worth the investment.
being bipolar is creating a thought in my head,painting a scenario, feeding it, yelling action, then yelling cut, adding another scene, taking away characters that don’t add up to the story, and finally falling asleep. but i only sleep for an hour or so at a time till my body twitches for the next fucking extremity. this next extremity is hungry for information. it’s 3 in the goddamn morning and i’m searching “cold cases” which subconsciously i know i shouldn’t do. you see, they’ll feed into my paranoia and when i’m in this extreme state, there is no stopping me, what is rationalizing?
nothing is satisfying me at this point, i’m delusional, i’ve written so many dark things on the notebook i keep on my nightstand. poems that i tell myself, maybe i’ll share them on instagram one day. now i’m thinking about instagram and my writing and i start getting angry at how the world thinks likes on instagram means success. what does success mean to me? it means quality, now i’m searching for books on being a quality writer and i’ve added all these books to my private wishlist on amazon. i already checked out these writers online but i don’t follow any of them. so i just keep writing and writing and writing, nonsense, none of it makes sense. my alarm rings at 6:50am but who needs an alarm when you’ve been up all night? my best friends text me wishing a great day. the guy who still checks on me from time to time tells me he loves me. my neighbor says good morning while he goes outside to smoke a cigarette. and no one knows that i’ve just had a manic episode and that soon i’ll isolate myself because i’m hollow now and i’m crying for no reason. i’m falling from the high.