You don’t know what my bipolar acts like.

Blue Hues

My blood is sixty-percent coke zero, the other forty being medications and life questions. I talk too fast and people often have to tell me to slow down. “I can’t understand you.” I repeat myself wondering if what I’m saying is possible to understand. I’ve gotten so I repeat myself out of habit, just generally believing that no one could get it on the first pass. I stutter over words. My minds already four ahead of me. My mouth never can keep up. My thoughts are to deep and fast to cover slowly. There are too many of them. “Everyone’s like that.” Someone tried to assure me- but that’s not what the doctors say. Manic. Always manic. Unless depressive. They couldn’t hit the middle. I got to pick. Manic. Always manic.

“You don’t act bipolar, though.” You don’t know what my bipolar acts like. Fingers flying on a keyboard, writing long winded sentences while singing music at the same time. They don’t mix. Why would they? I forget a word. Everything halts. It’s on the tip of my tongue. I can’t summon it so I rewrite the sentence to go around it. The singing starts again.

I can feel my soul when I close my eyes. Coming in like radio waves, a little fuzzy, too many stations at once. “I need you to focus.” I’m told. I haven’t been on the same topic as you for a good two minutes. I was working on a solution to the problem you told me two weeks ago. I think I’ve got one.

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