The Bipolar Path

by Carin Aharon

It is different this time – the way he left.
Not like a storm, not loud, not rough.
He left like a man who thinks he’s had enough –
but never once stopped to ask what it meant for me
to carry the chaos so quietly.

He left after a fight.
Not a scream, not a break,
just a “no, I’d rather stay in” – and he saw that as a stake.
I wanted one night to be still with myself,
to write, to think, to breathe for my health.

But to him, my no was a crime.
My stillness – an attack.
And instead of staying, instead of leaning in,
he packed.

He petted my dog like he was starring in a play,
didn’t even glance at me on his way.
As if my love were an obligation
he’d finally outgrown.
As if my soul were a burden
he no longer could condone.

But this time, it’s different,
because this time, I didn’t chase.
I didn’t fold, didn’t plead,
didn’t beg him to stay with grace.
I sat with my silence,
felt it stretch like a sigh.
And for once in his leaving –
I didn’t die.

Because this time, he didn’t leave me at my weakest.
He left me in my strength.
He left because I chose myself,
and he couldn’t go that length.

And maybe what breaks me most –
what twists the knife in clean –
was when he said,
“I don’t need to suffer. Your moods aren’t my scene.”

As if my mind were a mess he could walk around,
as if my diagnosis were a weight he never agreed to hold down.
As if he didn’t trace my curves
but refused to see the scars.
As if he wanted the moonlight,
but not the stars.

He said it’s my problem,
like I’d left it on his floor,
as if I didn’t live with this monster
behind every door.
As if I hadn’t begged myself quiet,
bit my tongue into blood,
just to be lovable enough
to stand in his flood.

But I am not sorry.
Not anymore.
Because my “problem” is also my fire.
It’s what makes me more.
I feel everything loud, and I still stayed kind.
I cracked open daily, and still showed up aligned.

He saw my shadows and called them stains.
But they are poems –
they are rain.
And if he can’t love the storm,
then he doesn’t deserve the bloom
that follows after I rise from my own ruined room.

So take your silence,
take your shame.
Take your cowardice,
and your blame.
You didn’t leave because of me.
You left because I stopped apologizing for being me.

This time, I don’t mourn with a bleeding heart.
I mourn with clarity.
I pull myself apart
and put myself back better.
Stronger.
Real.
I let myself feel.

And you?
You couldn’t even stay for a rough night.
You wanted candlelight,
but never the fight.
You wanted soft,
but I am real.
You wanted calm,
but I feel.
You wanted love without the cost.
And so, this time –
it’s not me who lost.