lately, i've been trying to humanize my illness.

my borderline personality disorder,

 i think we should call her

alice.

alice is a

child,

one tethered to me infinitely,

as if we are always holding hands.

she is a

small, unknowing

child.

she is full of

naivety.

she is ⠀⠀⠀⠀ she is ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

 and she, of course,

thinks like a child.

she makes

hasty assumptions.

insensitive questions.

but she does not know any better.

she is like a younger sibling i was asked to look after.

i find her

annoying,

yet, she finds me

cool.

i'm all she has,

 i'm all she knows.

she's ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀to me,

connected

and i am her

whole world

she's only a fraction of mine.

she asks

for me,

i exist outside of her,

but,

for her,

she does not exist outside of me.

she is terribly lonely.

she only knows what i tell her,

only knows my perspective.

she is quick to defend me.

she throws

tantrums,

when i am hurt.

whines,

cries,

alice ⠀⠀⠀⠀me,

loves

and all she wants is for me to be

happy,

she gets upset on my behalf,

even if her way of showing it is clumsy.

alice does not know she has

long claws,

venom in her breath.

but i also know what she truly is.

i can see it that way, too.

sharp teeth,

sweet girl.

monster

i don't have the heart to tell her about the monster she is.

monster

monster

monster

alice, you're a very

i know, you're

scared.

even if you

rip my world into shreds,

i will always hold your hand.

loud,

curious,

for her, she looks⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀and

sweet

dainty.

when sunlight stops pouring through

and i wither and wilt away

my petals torn and fading

will you still love me?

this window pane,

is my gateway freedom.

outside,

in the brisk of fall,

i can see it.

i can daydream,

let the purification consume me.

become entranced,

by the coloring of the leaves,

by the wildlife springing abound,

by the overwhelming sense of independence

my thoughts wander,

and rarely return without a feeling of envy

i hate the sounds of the cars.

i hate the way they sound when they slow on the concrete.

i hate the anxiety of being looked in on.

yet,

i sit by the window,

idly awaiting one to pass.

as if i need that fear instilled in me to feel something;

to feel alive.

i hate the way the wind sways when one speeds by.

yet,

i walk outside,

feeling the breeze on my skin.

i hate the sounds of their brakes.

i hate the halting,

 the screeching,

the honking.

i hate all of it.

 yet,

 i sit in the middle

and wait.