Untitled Document

This carpet is nice.

I think I’ll rest here.

Above me, the fan hums contentedly.

Whooping round and round,

again and again.

Then the clock snags my attention with its mantra:




The sounds are so mesmerizing I almost don't notice how thoroughly they've distracted me.

But then I've noticed.

My mocking thoughts stumble into a waltz,

To the melody of the fan,

To the beat of my watch.

It’s a painful thing, living

When everyone else living hurts, too.

The people who hurt me have hurters,

And their hurters have hurters,

And the hurters’ hurters have hurters.

Maybe hurting is just part of the human condition.

Round and round,

again and again.

Everyone’s in pain, and the only way to fix it is by talking,

But talking hurts more,

So we don’t.


I wonder why life doesn’t have a pause button.

I wonder if I could petition the world to stop spinning.

It wouldn’t have to be long,

Just enough time for me to get my shit together.

Only a few hours.

Or days.

Maybe I need a year or two.

I’m sure the world wouldn’t mind if I disappeared for a while.

I could be replaced at work,

And I’ll have to part with loved ones eventually anyway.

I don’t want my life to end, not really—

dying is much too final and unknown to be a viable option

—all I want is a break.

I wouldn’t leave my family that permanently.

But I can’t tell them about this, either.

Someone always blames themselves,

And, even if it is their fault,

I don’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s hurt.

People hurt enough to begin with.

I think what I’m really afraid of is the people who’ll say it’s my attitude.

I hate those people.

I hate that they think so little of me;

I hate that they don’t hate themselves like I do;

But, mostly, I hate that, deep down, I think they’re right.

After all, when I’m with anyone else,

I make them feel good about themselves.

Surely, after so much time helping others,

I’ve saved a little bit of love for myself.


This isn’t who I am.

It’s just a bad day.

I’m fine, really.

I just think I need a little time.




This carpet is nice.

I think I’ll rest here.


This poem is about: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741