I Like to Sit and Cry Sometimes

I like to sit and cry sometimes
There is something delightfully self-indulgent
About self-pity and self-disgust
Resulting in some kind of twisted smugness
That you know just how awful your life is
Or how you yourself are awful.

I do not tell anyone that I cry
I don’t want to trouble them with my irrelevant problems
I don’t want their pity, their sympathy, or their attention
I don’t want them to crowd round me and waste their time caring about me
And there are bound to be some of them who would laugh
Because they are unpleasant or because they
Do not understand, and think I am making a fuss out of nothing
And some of them would be so spiteful
As to give useful, practical advice
Instead of the appropriate sympathy, which, of course, I do not want.

And there is more smugness
Because I am so independent and brave
And selfless not to trouble other people
I think, gleefully, of how they would react
If they knew how I suffer in silence
How they never realised my misery
And how I struggle on alone.

Of course, this leads me on to my thinking
Of what I might do if I was not so cowardly
How people would be shocked
Regret what they had done
Wish they had cared for me a little more,
Though I do not want their care.
Would I leave a note?
How stupid they would feel!
And then they would all have to pay attention to me
Even though I would not want it
For I am independent and do not need their attention.

I do not intend for anyone to read this poem,
At least, not in my lifetime,
Because then they would all bother me
While I was happily sitting and crying in peace.