Hypomanic retrospective

Abbey Bufford

I won’t write about writing poetry this time the

Binary line between manic and depressive feels like crayola marker

It blurs under the water rushing by it

Drips into my hairline I cut all my hair off this time


In rearview mirror the mania seems so far out of reach

I could jump and brush my fingers against its soft underside

The belly of the beast, or so to say, his teeth

Look like bars of bone from inside the throat


I didn’t want to come back down this time

The impact jars my organs loose they slosh like boiled fruit in a saucepan

It tastes sweet on my fingers, the pieces I pried loose

Stick down slightly wrong every time I repave myself


It grows inside me takes spare bits of ribcage into its mass makes them

A whole something becomes entire in

Tired circles my brain cuts through the stagnant moss

Look directly downward how far I am prepared to sink

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