*Â This poem contains references to postpartum psychosis, mental illness, suicidal ideation, domestic violence, and child endangerment. It is a raw, emotionally intense account that may be triggering for some readers. Please read with caution and prioritize your mental and emotional well-being. If you or someone you know is in crisis, help is available.
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Oct 28th 2023
Postpartum psychosis.
Or maybe just bipolar.
I still don’t know.
"I'm just texting to let you know—
I'm going to feed B.
then sit in the garage with the car running."
That’s the message you sent
after leaving me stranded
at a gas station.
I called eight times.
Then I ran.
A mile and a half through the woods,
lungs burning, heart sprinting toward
whatever I feared more—
the silence or what I might find inside it.
The house was chaos.
Juice spilled across the floor.
The kids strapped into their boosters.
E. soaked.
You were nowhere.
I screamed your name.
You appeared,
descending the stairs in tears.
I tried to speak.
You refused.
Kept walking.
Straight to the garage.
I followed.
Begged you to go back on your meds.
You snapped.
Fury in your fists.
Just like your mother.
Slaps.
Dodging.
Ducking.
Not new, just faster.
You said it was my fault.
Again.
And I believed you.
Again.
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