Green Carpet



Sitting on the green carpet at the top of my stairs.

Looking up at my ceiling fan, imagining myself, hanging by a rope.

And so I contemplated.

Death or life, life or death.


This was summer, where your average teenage kid,

Is out partying or spending time with friends.

I did not see a single friend that summer.

I locked myself in my room and cried.


I laid down on that green carpet with my left elbow.

I turned my forearm, so that my bare palm saw the ceiling.

I remember starting to cry.

I remember picking up my mother's red 3M scissors.


I slowly began to saw at the skin on my arm.

My blood boiled underneath my irritated skin.

When I finally pressed harder and broke the skin,

I saw the droplets of blood start to dribble out.


I put down the scissors.

I began to cry.

I envisioned myself, hanging by a rope,

On that white metal ceiling fan.


Yet here I am.

One year and seven months later.

On this same green carpet,

Writing this poem.



This poem is about: 


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