She is from manic highs and depressing lows,

alarms lining up in rows.

From waking up ten past due

one step away from a quarter to.

She is from high above,

fidgeting fingers and jittering toes

From “calm down,” “sit still,”

and “don’t forget to take your pills.”

The neverending words of a tortured tune,

overused.

She is from stark sleepless nights,

dark eyes binding to a bright blue screen

and a dead, gray blanket pulled overhead.

She is from vomited words,

Her brain overflowing with

withasaladofwords.

Her tongue can’t move that fast…

it can’t run as fast as the wandering thoughts.

Instead the tongue takes a path of its own.

Finally she notices and seals those pretty pink lips;

tear-stained cheeks slowly matching the color until

u n t i l

she finally turns blue.

She is from the lowest of lows,

listening to the words as they delivered the blows.

From “sticks and stones may break my bones,

but words will never hurt me.”

False.

She is hurt.

She is sad.

She is back to frequent naps,

fat hours of sleep, and

small bouts of consciousness.

She is from depressing lows and manic highs,

watching the sun fall and rise.

From waking up before due

one step away from blue.