Giovanni Mangiante is a poet from Lima, Peru. He has work published in Heroin Love Songs, Rat’s Ass Review, Three Rooms Press, Fearsome Critters, The Raven Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Crêpe & Penn, Open Minds Quarterly, and more. In writing, he found a way to cope with BPD.

The deformed child

 Sometimes a kid from school would shout that I was a monster
 while I was inside one of the bathroom stalls
 daydreaming, skipping a few minutes of class,
 thinking about my favorite videogame, my low grades, 
 what mom may have had cooked for lunch,
 if dad was safe at work.
  
 I was about 7 years old, and I didn’t respond to any of the insults
 even when they were yelled right at my face. 
 They had broken me already in kindergarten,
 and I didn’t even have silence on my side as a weapon.
  
 Alienated, underperforming, stopping my legs
 from taking me into the oncoming traffic,
 I grew up learning to hate myself
 in complete, utter abandonment of the self-esteem
 I would fail to build in the years to come.
  
 I have never once blamed my parents for any of this.
  
 They have always believed in the beauty no one saw.
 They have always believed in their son.
  
 It’s me who should have believed in himself,
 but I never did. 

still a few rounds left

 I wrapped my pants around the doorknob
 and one of the pant legs around my neck.
 I sat down looking around my room,
 saw my dog on my bed
 giving me a look of curiosity,
 I muttered "alright"
 and let myself drop backwards.
 the noose pressed hard
 as my legs shot out and my hands
 tried to untie the knot in a hurry,
 my dog leaped down from the bed,
 barked, 
 jumped around,
 jumped over me,
 I fought the knot and managed
 to free myself.
 I took my dog into my arms
 and caressed its head;
 the pants swung mortally
 from the doorknob like 
 the pendulum
 of an old-fashioned clock.
  
 death happened to be
 in someone else's bedroom
 that night. 

Cross

 you've let the weight you carry
 blind you from seeing
 you're still burning with youth
 like a furious and untamed
 green supernova.
  
 you've thought of throwing
 that weight over the bridge
 and let it drag you down
 with its rusted hook claws.
  
 don't.
  
 bridges are for crossing
 bridges are for stargazing
 bridges are 
 not 
 for jumping,
 my dear.
  
 bridges are the way
 to something better.
  
 take a deep breath,
 cross.