Elizabeth, NJ

There it is. The exact diagnosis I was looking for. “Borderline Personality Disorder,” help me God. My psychiatrist asks me if Diego was the catalyst. I tell her, he was probably the reasons I’m on medicine, but he means nothing to me when it comes down to how bad it’s become. New medicine equals new heights to reach. Risperidone redacts all the unhealthy thoughts to jump in bed with strangers. The urge to walk naked with a cigarette in my hand. F**k this brain out until there’s nothing to produce besides the necessary dopamine to keep on going. Lana del Rey until I find what my purpose is here. Other days, I want to drive to Jackson Avenue & light your car on fire and scream “F**k You” at the top of these weak lungs. I’m going to die soon, I know. I just want to tell you that when I do, I’m bringing you down with me. Everything I’ve gone through because of you will come to terms when strangers beds become my coffin.