Bipolar Hurricanes and Angels

Bipolar isn't cute. It isn't a room covered in paisley wallpaper. It isn’t tea parties on the freshly mowed lawn or pixies dancing through the moonlight. More to the point, it is your body chained to the radiator in someone else’s basement. It’s the spins after too much alcohol. The stares of mother’s as they hurry their kids along because you decided to shave your head at 4am the night before. However, it is also the best sex you’ve ever had, hands clutched to the headboard screaming out. The orgasms showering down on you over and over for a week like rain coming down. You are infinite. You are a magician, a shaman, a god, a beacon in the darkness. You are all of it. You are bipolar.