I Am BPDMature

I am this disorder.

I am acid.

I lack empathy, I don't care, I do not have any compassion.

I could look you, in the eye,

And just watch, as you die.

In my head, I see you all leaving, 

And I know just how my life is fleeting.

Because of how I was born, by who, and how I was raised,

I am never going to have the grace of being sane.

I'm just going to build these walls, crave you to enter them,

And fight like hell, as you try to get through.

When I realized just what they did to me, I was ten, or eleven.

But the pain was all earlier, I was young.  

The abandonment, betrayal, abuse, it all stung.

It broke me down, to little bits, and made me want to die.

I still wish for that to happen, for the end, of my life.

Line up all of these people, and tell them their little good byes,

Tell them how they ruined me, bit, by bit, but it is still all my fault.

How I broke, and fixed, shattered, and adapted.

How I am leaving, just to spite them,

While the bliss of ending this wreckage is so delightful,

The idea of revenge is almost, dare I say it, hopeful.

But there will be no guilt, no pity, no sympathy.

Because you don't care.  Why should you?  I don't.  

I hurt those I love, because they try to help.

I fight like hell, when I should submit.

I push those away, because they get too close.

And emptiness, I feel, all the while.

I can feel it, everyone.  It's empty.  My heart, is cold.

So let me run wild, bitter, and bold.

Reckless, impulsive, why should it matter to you?

What the fuck does it matter to you, what I do?

This is me, you are you, leave me alone to be who I am,

Which is to stab my legs until bleeding, until I can't stand.

To kick myself down, to shove my back, to the ground,

And fight those who try to help pick me up.

I do not have the label.

Because I am this label.

This disorder is something I am.  

I don't expect you to see.

Or understand.

Because I am BPD.

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed