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schizoaffective disorder

A bitter taste lingers in my mouth,

The taste of vile repulsion,

Years of shame, self-hatred,

Built on acts so irresponsible,

So impulsive, reckless,

No regard for any person

though each one is irrespective

in the throes of manic self-absorption.

It is there, like Midas’ gold,

Glinting in seduction,

Reaching out to grasp

my materialistically mesmerised

collapse of teetering sanity.

My only limitation being

The ability to limit

my recklessness,

To abandon the wisdom

 of abstention.

The creditors’ letters sit in a pile,

Like teachers waiting to scold

And perhaps to chastise,

with a whack of the punitive cane.

Every word burns a scar

Into my defeated, guilty self,

Etched upon my self esteem

Like a deep, raw, acrid wound.

And yet again,

My soul mourns its own stupidity.

© Sarah Louise Drury 2019

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