I’ve always been

labeled as quiet,

and I’m not here to

say this is untrue,

you’ll find me with

my nose in a book or

writing a story or two,

it’s so peaceful

from your point of view,

you’d never know how

I’m so blue.

My bedroom is 

a comforting haunt,

I nestle into the sheets

but they hiss my mistakes

as I try to sleep,

my idicotic laughter

at the dinner table

and foolish notes 

to classroom discussions,

it’s a wonder

I’m still alive. 

And sometimes I think

I should just live off the grid,

what a waste of time it is

always waiting by the phone,

yet no one should

acknowledge me at all,

cause if you choose me

I’ll always remember it,

a memory I’ll display

like a godforsaken trophy

on my nightstand.

And everyone’s just trying to

enjoy their champagne,

but all I notice is

how it sounds like pain,

this isn’t my party

and yet I’ve made it

all about my melancholy,

I’m starting to

understand why I

never receive invitations.

I’m begging my therapist

for a cure to use,

she tells me it’s

right inside of you,

I can’t believe

I pay someone to

tell me such bullshit,

my mental illnesses

gather at the bar

and laugh at

how stupid I am.

I don’t know

what’s next for me,

a master’s degree or

a move to the city,

and I don’t know if

there’s even time to

materialize these dreams

when I continue to be a victim

of my own casualties,

perhaps it’s fine if        

I’m just quiet to you.

---