Manic lows and highs are horrible. But, occasionally, you get a nice one before you crash. And those nice ones are so nice. And make me trip…
Glittery Boys Floating in Mania, a poem by Drem
Written July 1, 2016
“These pretty fuckboys
with their black hair and piercings
who never finished college,
who don’t make eye contact,
and curse like a motherfucker
at their computer screens
in-between watching Star Trek
Edger Alan Poe
pills or whatever
for their undiagnosed
what the fuck is with all these bipolar and borderline
or schizophrenic boys liking me?
I swear I get more numbers in a psych ward than in a bar.
It’s the cycle.
The women in our family.
We attract the secretly unstable.
The secretly abusive
∗who refuse to seek help and never acknowledge a problem∗
(unlike me who is trying to save herself).
Bad boys. Quiet. Thinking. Creative. Smoking.
Clouds they are in
and thoughts they are thinking so quickly
and books they are writing
They’ll surely be best sellers or cult classics…
if they ever finish anything.
Any moment a change of face.
I call eccentric instead of crazy.
A new person appears in front of me
in the room,
in the moment,
and him and I are both left confused
because neither of us know who we are talking to.
And that’s a daily thing.
One after the other I go through.
And then comes the admission of cutting.
Yeah, we should start a club.
And the awkward kissing.
How many times did you try to kill yourself?
And it’s just… been there before.
I hate dating myself.
Mommy lasted 20 years and I’m lucky if I last 2 months.
I’m catching on
that my self-esteem makes me vulnerable
to the magic manic highs
those boys get
as they float from room to room
covered in paint
with that wild look in their eyes
from the sleep deprivation cured by cocaine,
and from their current travel on the ever so glittery LSD.
Oh, they’re so beautiful!
And they need me.
And they want me.
And they love me
until they forget who I am
and go fuck somebody else.
I even tried church and got the same result.
I hate dating a worse version myself.
I swear I get more numbers in a psych ward than in a bar.”