I like self-pity.
I think it's good.
It's not like pity for others.
I think that's a lie.
There's almost nothing better
than lying on your bed,
all the lights out,
the room too lonely to bear,
thinking you deserve better
than you've gotten.
Self-pity is there
when self-respect is not.
It's there when self-confidence
is afraid.
It's there when self-esteem
is worthless.
I love self-pity
but everywhere I go
no one ever has a good thing
to say about it.
That's just self-pity, they complain,
and wag their virtuous fingers.
I don't think that's right.
I think self-pity has gotten a bum rap,
just like me.
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James Valvis lives in Washington State. His work has recently appeared in Arts & Letters, Atlanta Review, Blip (Mississippi Review), elimae, Foundling Review, Rattle, River Styx, and is forthcoming in The Pedestal, H_NGM_N, Hanging Loose, New York Quarterly, Night Train, Verdad, and others. His full-length poetry collection, How to Say Goodbye, is forthcoming from Aortic Books. He's not as handsome as his Facebook picture suggests.
