Ridpath's poem reads like a confession written in a low moment. The speaker opens bluntly, "Not everybody wants to exist," and then shows why: a pile of anxieties, from washing and cooking to the dread of simply waking up. Small things become huge. A broken keyboard, a phone call, a burst of rage that leaves confusion and gaps in memory.
The title suggests the speaker has deleted their creative work, though the poem never spells out what happened. The middle turns toward someone else: "Would have been so easy for you to reply." The speaker calls themselves a "broken kid" and admits to being "a scary mess," which sounds both apologetic and hurt. The ending is ambiguous. Feeling "blessed to exist" sits oddly beside the "emptying hand of fate," and the last line, "You were always in control," seems to hand power to that unnamed person.
The mood is raw, tired, and quietly pleading, with short, flat lines that feel exhausted.