Mental Health | Isolation | Daily Rituals

No Exit Just Echo

A poem about small survival inside a quiet collapse.

Created with AI by Author

The radiator clicks again
Its throat coughing metal into the dark
Trying to speak
But too rusted to finish the thought.

I fold yesterday’s shirt under my head.
It smells like toast that got stuck in the slot
a little burnt
a little familiar.
Maybe that’s who I am now,
fabric with no shape,
just memory and lint.

These four walls do not echo.
They lean in
breathing
not heavy
just bored with my repetition.

Someone I love left a mug on the sill.
Rain filled it.
The handle cracked last month.
I still rinse it out every morning
Then leave it there again
like a ritual that only makes sense
If you stopped explaining things a long time ago.