Bipolar and Motherhood

I feel sixty, seventy, eighty years old
when this winter of no sun surrounds me
and renders me red-cheeked and frozen in
bewildered happenstance; like twenty years of
living in four seasons has taught me nothing
I’m still standing here frozen in
last summer’s clothing.

I grieve the things I’ve lost along the way,
somehow, I lost you.

I mourn the person you once were,
beautiful and strong and so
unassuming of everyone else
now cold, weathered and full of hatred
for everyone you know

I’m scared to nudge you
don’t want you looking at me the wrong way
and have that torrent of fear and regret splattered my way
so I slide back into my own isolation
craving silence instead of your jagged words
soaked in passive-aggresiveness,
served with a smile that never quite reach your
dead, soulless eyes.

I’ll see you again, in spring.
Maybe we can recommence our friendship then.
Until then I’m back here, nestled
in a cocoon of books and fuzzy blankets
counting down the days until
I see some sun

again.