I live somewhere between heaven and hell,
where every emotion rings louder than bells.
One minute I’m flying,
I’m touching the sky,
the next I’m convinced
there’s no reason to try.
I can love you so deeply
it burns through my chest,
then fear that you hate me
and won’t let me rest.
One little silence,
one unanswered call,
and suddenly my whole world
is beginning to fall.
BPD is extreme.
There’s no middle for me.
I’m either drowning in darkness
or too wild to breathe.
I’m either invincible,
beautiful, alive,
or buried beneath
every reason I cry.
And the lows?
They don\'t whisper.
They roar.
They kick down the doors
of my mind and demand more.
They tell me I\'m worthless,
unwanted, alone,
that everybody hates me,
that nobody\'s home.
Then the highs come crashing,
electric and bright,
like I\'m fucking immortal,
like I swallowed the light.
I laugh like I\'m fearless,
I burn like a flame,
then hours later
I don\'t recognize my name.
I hate how my heart
can rewrite every scene,
turn a friend into a stranger,
turn love into mean.
I know that they\'re human,
I know they have lives,
but my fear starts screaming,
and the fear always thrives.
“They hate you.”
“They\'ll leave.”
“You\'re too much.”
“You\'re alone.”
And I know those aren\'t facts,
but they feel carved into stone.
So I sit with the silence,
with tears in my eyes,
trying to convince myself
my darkest thoughts lie.
Because somewhere beneath
all this emotional hell,
there\'s still a small voice
that refuses to yell,
that says:
You are not every thought
that your disorder creates.
You are not every abandonment,
every fear, every hate.
You are not broken forever,
though broken may be how you feel.
You are a person surviving
something painfully real.
So maybe tonight
I don\'t feel I can win.
Maybe happiness feels
like a place I can\'t get in.
But feelings aren\'t prophecies,
and pain isn\'t fate.
Sometimes surviving
is simply saying,
“Not tonight.
I\'ll try again tomorrow.
I\'ll wait.”