Kelly Collins is a young poet who lives in Oregon and struggles with bipolar disorder. She spends most of her time painting and writing. For more of her work follow her at

A Prose Poem

By Kelly Collins


Words built up like a noose around my neck and I kept thinking about how I asked you to choke me so I could feel oblivion when the feelings got too hard to talk about. I thought about all the times you said you hated hurting me and all I’d see was purple.

We stood in the kitchen quietly exchanging conversation like we thought the neighbors were listening, like the walls were made of glass. I begged you not to punch holes in them but you did anyways.

I was wondering how much honey you can take from the hive before the bees turn against you, thickening the air, clouds at ground level. How much love I could take before yours turned to hate. I consider inhaling the cloud.

The last few months I wondered if there were limits to your loving me. I solved the equation, found where the line inevitably ends. Took that cursed number and marked the date down on my calendar. Set the thing on fire.

It’s been awhile since I thought about these things. The ashes of that calendar are still alive as dust in my house. Your handprint still haunts my hip. But this is more about a feeling than the thing which breathes. These are just the memories coughing in their old age.