bipolar type 2

Urban Air

 

 

The urban air weighs heavy on my chest

like my hand when I try to press my anxieties back

into my sternum. Outside the blue jays call to each other

in a pitch that leaves my fingers pressing to my temples

as I try to stop the throbbing that pulses with every beat of my heart.

This used to come easy;

my fingers relishing in the tactile press of the keyboard

would lull me like a baby gently rocked in its father’s arms.

My father held me more than my mother —

or at least that’s what I remember.

Bipolar is genetic. Did you know that?

I am different than she is. A different type.

     More subdued.

          Second string.

If you stare through the screen your eyes will focus

on the squares caging you from the vines creeping up the window

     panes,

          but it won’t save you

from the smell of the neighbors smoker

that makes you hunger for the food beyond the fence.

There the songbirds serenade each other

like the waves do to the sand. My ankles

ache for the steady rhythm of the water to soothe my heartbeat,

the salt air to expand my lungs,

the vastness of the Atlantic

to steal away the panic burrowed between my ribs.

 

 

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