Sitting on the borderline
as my hysteria rises.
My mind is disorderly,
but please don’t save me.
All that makes me bleed,
it spills into ink.
Don’t want to feel like this,
but don’t want to get better
I keep making lemonade,
‘til it makes my face drain.
But the anecdote may devour
my one and only power.
My therapist
is an exorcist,
expelling my monstrosity
along with my artistry.
And perfect Lucy on the clouds
with her glistening diamond mouth.
What is it like
to feel mirth as you write?
Because I want happiness
but would the Bell Jar exist
if Sylvia knew of bliss?
Would we see a starry sky
if painting wasn’t Vincent’s respite?
If I wake up with
sunshine blessing my mind,
would I have traded the
tortured artist for a failed one?
