Don't Blame Me.

I am sitting here, my head in my hands,
wondering just how the fuck I got to be in this place,
this hell hole,
my life.

I pick myself up with some difficulty,
all my bones are aching from not being in motion long enough,
I move over to the mirror and peer into it cautiously.

I see.
Me.

My eyes are shrunken back, but brilliant green.
My lips are horribly cracked and bleeding.
My hair is strewn about my face like bright red tentacles.
My skin is dotted red and pasty pale.

I look at my body.
My collar bone is jutting out unhealthily.
My hips are far too prominent.
My stomach is flat, yet flabby.
My arms are thin and insect-like.

I wish I could be someone else,
anyone but this mess that I am.

I can't sleep.
I don't eat.
I can barely speak.

I blame it on my illness.

BIPOLAR.
You can see it branded into me.

I wish I wasn't the one who was cursed to walk as a zombie.
To walk under the influence of one pill or another.

"It's all your fault"
It can't be my fault, it's not my fault.

Don't blame me.

Don't blame me.

God help me.
I've got too much to lose.