Content Warning: This poem is a very explicit account of negative thought spirals. Because of this, it can be very difficult to read, especially if you experience depression, suicidal ideation, or thoughts of self harm. Please be mindful of your own wellbeing as you read on.
what a small thing
and you can’t even do it right.
I mean I’m not surprised
you don’t do anything right, really,
or if you ever manage to it was probably
someone else’s success,
and on the rare occasion
that something goes wrong and it isn’t your fault,
it’s just the world dealing justice
for how fucking tedious you are.
honestly it’s a wonder that
anyone puts up with you – actually,
maybe they shouldn’t have to.
you think you need help? no,
you should just sit here, with me,
because you are not worthy
of any care they would give you
and be sure
that they’d be doing it because they are good
and not because you are wanted.
your arm’s on the desk
lift it up and smash it down
line your body with the bruises
that you deserve.
it’s all pointless anyway
one day you are going to die
and there will be nothing
you will just not exist
like when you are asleep
there will be nothing
you want to know, don’t you
if it really is nothing at all
maybe we could find out.
it’s not like anyone would miss you.
because you’re just not nice,
if you’re nice it’s just an act,
if you’re acting it’s not well,
when you’re well you’re too loud and
when you’re sick you’re a burden and
no one wants to look at you
because you are fat and ugly and
no one wants to listen to your stupid smug voice
you worthless little know it all
who doesn’t really know anything.
those scars on your thigh
are not sufficient
to articulate how much of a waste of space
you truly are.