Fourteen minutes past midnight is an hour for the thoughts that won't go to sleep. The title «00.14» looks like a clock reading, and if that is how to take it, the poem belongs to the hour when everything goes quiet and one memory gets loud. Krystal's speaker is less telling a story than being caught inside one. She keeps coming back to "one thing, or one memory" and to "the same perosn," and she never names either. That silence is the poem's central fact. What hurts is the mind's refusal to let go, and the poem doesn't need the cause to show it.
The opening is a tiny argument. "Not my fault. / I say. / Not my mind. / They say." The lines are almost mirror images, and the repeated "say" makes the exchange feel like two voices talking past each other. The second denial is ambiguous. It could be other people brushing her off, or it could be a claim that the problem isn't "in her head." Either way, she is defending herself against someone and gets no real answer. After that the poem turns inward and the argument stops.
The form shows the same turn. Nothing rhymes in any planned way, though "air" and "compare" chime inside one line. The poem moves between clipped fragments ("To nothingness. / To space. / To me.") and long, tangled sentences. "No matter of how many. Things I keep thinking of one thing" doesn't quite resolve grammatically, and that suits a mind going round in circles. Odd spacing before commas and small slips like "It may happened" give the writing a raw, unpolished feel, as if it were put down quickly. Whether or not that was deliberate, it makes the poem sound like thinking rather than performing.
The imagery is stark. The speaker lies "on a cold floor" with "no sounds no air," and she says she is there "so that I would my self compare." The list that follows is the most unsettling passage in the poem: "nothingness," "space," "me," "nobody." Her own name sits between two kinds of emptiness, as if the comparison has already been decided. The word "replaying" matters too, because it treats memory like a recording, something that runs again whether she presses play or not. The line "It may happened before" blurs whether this is a real past event or an image her mind has built, and the poem never settles it.
The most striking image comes next: "People would step on me thinking I might be the new art, the new side walk." It is darkly funny, and it hurts. She is so still and so unseen that passersby read her as decoration or pavement, something to walk over. Being stepped on and being mistaken for a surface say the same thing: nobody notices that a person is lying there. The following line, "My knees would shake as before," drags the body into it. Her fear is physical and familiar, a reaction the body has memorized.
The poem's best line is its quietest: "My heart isn't attached, but my mind is." The split between heart and mind sums up the whole experience. The feeling has been cut loose, or numbed, but the thinking stays fastened to the person and the moment. The final wish, to "erase it, and start all over again," borrows the language of a page or a screen, as if a life could be wiped clean like a document. The phrase "over again" also echoes her earlier "over and over," so even the wish for escape sounds like a loop. The poem ends on that wish, with no relief in sight.
What makes the poem worth reading is how plainly it handles a hard subject. It doesn't explain the wound, and it doesn't claim a recovery. It shows what rumination feels like from inside: it is repetitive, tiring and a little absurd, and it leaves a person feeling both invisible and trapped by her own thoughts. Many readers will know that feeling even if they have never lain on a cold floor, and by leaving out the details, the poem lets them recognize it.