One Hour

Is 3:30 am and life just threw up its hands in a massive WTF.

Can I have normal for just one year? Where everyone is healthy, in love, not sick or selfish or insane.

One month then. Can I have one month?

Ok fine. One week. I’d settle for one week.

An hour. An hour where I’m in love and they’re in love and it’s beautiful so the scales of insanity fall from the walls of reality and transparency is the sky and the ground. The needing outstretched claws of the world can’t touch me. One hour.

One hour where Bipolar disease and addiction do not touch anyone I know or love. One hour of pure existence without the metaphorical scar tissue I’ve built up around myself to protect me from the brutal disregard that comes from loving sick people. One hour.
I’ll obviously delete this as soon as I realize what a weak bitch it makes me look like. No time for weakness. Nor fear. Nor indecision. Just action. My daughter needs me. So I shall put my love and my need and my feelings in my pocket, dust myself off, and go get her, at 3:44 in the morning, because that’s what parents of bipolar women do. Year after year after fucking year.

Who could love this

How dare I even long for love

I’m tired.

So fucking tired

But I’d make time

For that one hour



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