The weight I bear

"It's mental," they say, "you'll be fine, you'll see."

But it's draining me daily, stealing me from me.

"Oh, Isabella, don't be so dramatic—

take your meds, go out, stop being static.

Everyone feels this, just push through the day."

But are you really hearing what I say?

Do I need to shout from rooftops above

for someone to listen, to see what I'm made of?

My borderline isn't a wound that will heal;

it's a weight that I carry, raw and real.

I feel every pulse, every shift, every sound,

a flood in my mind where I start to drown.

Mood turns on a dime, emotions collide;

no words can explain what's going on inside.

You say that you get it, that you understand,

but you don't know the cost of what I withstand.

When I say I'm tired, I mean it's too much—

this pain that consumes, this life out of touch.

I sleep to escape, to drift and ignore,

awake just to lay here, my soul on the floor.

No food, no fight, just trying to be

in a world of hurt that won't let me be free.

So I think of the end, of silence and peace,

of the weight I'd release, of finding release.