Green Carpet
Location
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.
~