I want to go away.
Not forever.
Or maybe I do.
I don’t know.
I can never figure it out.
That’s just how Bipolar II is.
But let’s switch it back.
I just want to go away.
Just… away.
Somewhere I can forget
how heavy it is
to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders
that have only known war.

Somewhere for a few days…
where peace doesn’t feel like a stranger
and silence isn’t so loud.
No phones.
No “Are you okay?”
No pretending that I am.

I want to be surrounded
by smiling strangers
and trees.
To walk freely,
barefoot,
without judgment sticking to my skin
like old shame.

To just
breathe
again.
To remember what it means
to exist
without performance.

I want to learn how to love myself again.
Because God knows,
no one else can do it for me.

Love the parts I hide.
The flaws I’ve memorized like scripture.
The curves,
the stretch marks —
those sacred etchings of survival
on a body that has carried
five lives.

Five.
One I chose to let go.
One, God took before I ever held him.
And the rest…
still echo in my ribcage
when I try to sleep.

I need to come to terms
with all of it.
Every scar.
Every breakdown.
Every unfinished goodbye.

I tried to leave this world once.
I whispered goodbye,
but Life?
Life whispered back:
“Not yet.”
So here I am.

Still standing.
Still aching.
Still searching
for a reason.

Maybe that reason
is me.

Maybe I am not a failure,
but a field
waiting to bloom again.

I just need to learn
how to do this thing
called living
from the beginning.

Not to fight.
Not to fake it.
Just to be.
Just to live.

Just… to be me.