Happy Manic Girls Don’t Attend Funerals, poem by Drem

Happy Manic Girls Don’t Attend Funerals, poem by Drem

August 1, 2016

“Smiles and painted nails.

Minimal makeup.

Off all your pills.

An Instagram

(who the hell uses that anymore besides adolescents?)

covered with your latest boyfriend

while you’re sporting a crop-top

in high wedge summer sandals.

You know it was only a few months ago

that you were desperate

for attention

and threatening to kill yourself

because you were alone.

And felt lonely.

And felt nobody loved you

even though I was there

on the phone with you

calming you down

mid panic-attack

every morning.

…You didn’t let me come to see you.

But you know I tried.

I sent you a care basket

and I spoke to you every day.

I don’t count,

I realize now,

because I’m a friend

(or thought I was, to you)

who’s a manic depressive

like you

and I’m not a boy

that will buy you flowers.

I’m a manic depressive

and I remind you of yourself-

the you who you’re running from.

And now you’re smiling.


Away and gone,

off all your pills cold.

Not going to therapy

or taking care in any way

of your mental health.

With flowy blown-out blonde hair

and cherry chapstick on your lips.

And I’m sitting here


“What the fuck happened?”


“Are you sure you’re not manic?”

Oh no, of course you’re not.

You’re perfect

and you’re beautiful.

And everyone loves you.

And you have a lovely job

with benefits.

And a boyfriend- a penis- that adores you.

All the while

I’m in my room

still in a battle

against the world

and against

my worn-down mind.

A fucked up psyche

and memories that hold me locked

in the vacant space

behind my eyelids.

I am living proof

that you can’t OD

from cannabis.

But that doesn’t matter

now, does it?


Because I don’t fit in

to this new life you created

with friends who see the one side of you

that you fake to make beautiful.

I’m not worth a call back,

let alone a text.

I’m truly not jealous.

I’m really not.

If anything I’m worried

you’re going to crash


once the fragile life you made

comes down upon itself.

You know I’ve done,


the same thing as you

last summer.

I kept running and running.

And it got me nowhere.

No real friends.

No real commitments.

No real progress.

I made it all up

to make me feel better.

I created a facade

and wore tank tops

with a push up bra.

And surrounded myself with yes-men

who took advantage of my body

and I loved the attention

and didn’t care

about the rumors and the consequences.

I was in the moment,

and I was high as a fucking kite

on a flush of serotonin-

and the rest of those happy chemicals

that were working on over-drive

and on over-time.

Next time this happens to you,


know I won’t be around

to pick up the pieces

of the girl you really are.

I won’t pick up the phone

even if you’re in the hospital-

the same way you did to me

when I was on chemo

three blocks from your day job.

I won’t waste my energy

on someone who I wiped the tears of

who then threw me away.

Friendship goes both ways-

cliched but true.

And I know

you will use me again.

For when I need you,

like now,

while you’re covered in glitter,

you won’t give a fuck I exist.

You are very selfish.

And if I die

I know you won’t attend my funeral.

Because pretty girls

don’t attend funerals,

let alone for suicides.

And I know it sounds mean,

but I’m not sure I’ll attend yours either.”

(C) Drem 2016





One thought on “Happy Manic Girls Don’t Attend Funerals, poem by Drem

  1. This is a really daunting examination. I have so many questions from reading this about myself. This is an utterly fantastic piece. It has a wisdom to it that I really admire and read like advice that maybe readers won’t suffer the same and recognise is thr signs.


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