May wears flowers
while I wear skin that bruises from air.
Too soft, too raw,
feeling everything too loud,
too close.
And I wonder—
how can the world bloom
when I am always breaking?
They call it BPD.
Borderline.
But I don't sit on a border—
I am the border.
Between need and fear,
between closeness and collapse,
between "I love you"
and "please go before I ruin this."
Nights are sharp.
That's when it comes—
the ache,
the voice that whispers,
"You're too much,"
and the part of me that believes it
starts to push,
even when I ache to be held.
I say I'm fine
when I'm anything but.
I hope someone notices,
then flinch when they do.
The distance between us
isn't just miles—
it's every time I swallow my truth
and smile instead.
Sometimes,
I push love out
just to see if it comes back.
Because if it comes back,
maybe I'm not a burden.
Maybe I'm worth the staying.
Music saves me—
a single song can hold me
when I can't hold myself.
And stories—
they let me disappear
into someone else's pain
just long enough
to feel less alone in mine.
Since I moved,
my skin's been dry.
Like even my body misses
where I came from.
It peels, flakes,
tries to shed something
it can't quite name.
And then—
my lung collapsed.
Like my body couldn't hold
the weight of my silence
any longer.
But still—
I breathe.
I speak.
I stay.
This month, I name it:
Borderline Personality Disorder.
Not for pity,
not for shame—
for understanding.
Because there's power
in giving your pain a name
and realizing
it is not your identity.
Just a wound.
Just a place healing
has to pass through.
I am learning:
I can be hard to hold,
but not impossible to love.
I can fall apart
and still be worthy
of being chosen.
I am not a burden—
I am becoming.
And maybe healing
isn't a straight line,
but the decision
to keep showing up,
keep softening,
keep choosing
love
even when the tide
pulls me the other way.