By: Alex Soto
It’s one in the morning—I’m awake with fear,
She’s tearing my character down, trying to harvest a tear.
It’s two in the morning—I’m hollow with blue,
My sobbing and sorrow are met with her “who?”
It’s three in the morning—I’m sleeping no more,
Replaying her actions, eyes fixed on the floor.
Footsteps drift slowly, descending the stairs,
Bracing for “Round Two,” I’m caught in her glares.
Her head round the corner—a tilt and a shrug,
Almost a smile, “Can I have a hug?”
I sigh and say yes, arms open and numb,
Empathy’s poison I’ve willingly become.
I cling to the warmth, but the truth is unknown,
Day four from the ward, but my wife hasn’t shown.
Well, she must be. Because who is holding me so tight?
Bipolar depression is. My Wife’s gone, gone with My Light.