Poem Written Under Bedsheets
by Chrissy Martin
Today I want even the sun
to leave me alone. Curse the snails
and ladybugs. The neighbors singing
in the shower. Don’t touch me,
love. Don’t touch me, clothes.
Don’t touch me, wind-knocked leaves.
It’s not that I love dirty sheets,
love this bedroom or how thick
my hair gets when washing is a chore.
I sit in my sweat and silence.
If I turn on TV, that means leisure,
guilt. I chew on my hair, thank saltines,
kiss my palms, and touch
my eyelids. This anxiety is so
six months ago. This depression,
better fit with my homemade
bangs and lighter-soft eyeliner.
Where is my sick day? Where
is my just-not-today day?
Can I call in and be all excuse me,
I have no clean shirts for this day;
excuse me, I am tangled; excuse me,
everything in my fridge is growing hair.
Everything happens for a reason
is what I am told by people
who think everything is reasonable.
I light a lilac candle and blow it out,
toast the stale bread and put it back.
I want to make something
even if it’s just a mess.
From Whole, Holy, Hot by Chrissy Martin (Write Bloody Publishing, 2026).