A tedious day it was; the sky was painted grey,
Familiar to the hue of her soul’s dismay.
Diagnosed as she was with bipolar disorder,
You’d never know if ‘Eeyore’ or ‘Tigger’ would be making decisions for her,
And of whether she would wake up with a smile or a roar.
She could no longer see facts through all of her rage,
She was nonconforming–a rebel–given her coming of age.
Hail she did from a broken home,
Who, in the ‘comradery’ of her parents, felt alone.
They reckoned their marriage was a “grotesque misalliance”
“Hell” was what she called her home.
They held their pride like they should have held her,
A red flag to her was just another pretty colour.
She abhorred that falling felt like flying until the bones crushed,
In love she was cursed, but in abundance she was blessed.
Writing letters addressed to the fire, sealed in envelopes,
Dream she did of rainbows and sunflowers amid the desolate lockup.
Searching for those who tucked her into her blankets come nightfall,
Bedtime tales, hot chocolates — the little things were indeed the be all.
She casually drew hearts in the by-line,
Reminiscing days that were more sublime.
Back when movie nights beneath stars fit her poems in perfect rhyme,
She was now pleading for cameos in the movies of her life — oh the changes with time.
November flush and her flannel cure,
Her life had never seemed more obscure.
She never grew up; although in years she was old,
Like her constant thoughts as she sat on the threshold.
You could walk home with her if you wished to,
And she wouldn’t know where to lead you.
Although the serenity in her was lost,
She now had, mostly, alluring ghosts.