The marigolds on my wrists
breathe into my poetry like
cut wrists breathing out
strawberry jam
It gave my bipolar
ways a place to live,
and sing like sirens
destroying ships.
It gave life too
the miscarriage
my family can
never see or hear
like blind spots
of a broke car.
It taught me
hide my depression
within the lines
confusion.
Lose myself in
sleep, thinking about
my love for poetry.
I was taught to write
about the pain our society
rips us from, the way
we are chained to modern
slavery.
Our minds a gateway
to poetry of beauty
that taught me
to cook my poems
in honey and milk.
Make them feel as
alive as my feelings
are poured in like
cake batter.
And I can finally
say poetry saved
me from my insanity.
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