What really happens behind closed doors

It’s June.

I am laying on my bed.

It’s two in the afternoon.

The sun is trying to welcome me with its warm arms

come outside

you’ll feel better

but my heavy comforter tells it to go away and 

I continue to stare at the textured wall in my apartment.

Netflix is on in the background…but I’ve already seen this season a few times.

I could quote this whole episode if I really wanted to.

It’s two-fifteen in the afternoon. 

Time is molasses when I am not working.

If I focus really hard on one spot, the whole wall will start to move.

I have alcohol under my sink.

I should get it.

I should take a shower. 

At least then I am doing something somewhat productive.

but my comforter…it wants me to stay.

It pushes down on my body harder, I feel it all and its entirety.

The soft yet heavy weight pulls me deeper into the uncomfortably hard rectangle I call a mattress. 

I close my eyes and let my thoughts carry me away.

Back to a time I felt happy.

To a place that my comforter wouldn’t be so willing to keep me captive.

For a reason I am still not sure of.

But a place where I can relieve all of the good times.

and not think about the present.

p.p1 {margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 15.0px Baskerville; color: #000000}
span.s1 {font-kerning: none}

This poem is about: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

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