i wrote this at 12:40am, and i kind of hate it

i’m a broken girl now, aren’t i? watching my back, and following the crowd. because you know perfectly well what happens, when you let yourself stick out.

i’m a broken girl now, aren’t i? ripping up my skin like old carpet, tired of these bones. angry, and lost, and alone.

i’m a broken girl now, aren’t i? covered in tiger stripes, and leopard spots, nothing more than a nice fur. a prize to be won. and i’ll sit here, and smile, and kiss your cheek. two for one.

i’m a broken girl now, aren’t i? now i can’t keep going. and the idea of tomorrow instantly makes my shoulders ache, and my eyes slip closed. but watch me. watch me smile for the crowd. watch me grab some duct tape, and say that it’s art as i slap it onto my mouth. because i know what i’m doing. and i will do it well.

even though i want to be happy. and i don’t think i can take this much longer, now.

because i want to be happy. but i don’t know how.

the valley of lost souls

and i guess, we all ended up here, somehow. dissociative and empty, staring into the traffic as our eyes go cold. because maybe it’s awful. but it’s also all i’ve ever known.

and the lights feel like they’re calling me. my very own instincts, bowed down before me. and i’d kill, just for you to look at me. because i just need desperately not to feel this alone.

and maybe you want to sleep. maybe you want to close your eyes, and bury yourself in blankets, and pillows; rest your head in the clouds and dream like you used to. but who fucking cares? because little girl, you have shit to do.

and maybe if i squint, somehow the light will hit it right. maybe if i just try harder. and maybe if i just smile wider. it’ll feel like it used to. and if i write myself a lie, will my life turn beautiful?

and it’s all such fucking bullshit. a broken system. a tired god. and i know that. i always have. and yet here i am. another starry-eyed idiot.

taking a deep breath. looking down into the abyss, sprinkled with glitter and sleepdust.

and surrendering myself completely to it.

Ah yes. Don’t we all love some life crisis poetry? Because boy, have I been writing some of that of late. I don’t know, I have these really good days, and then I have this sudden realization that at this point my entire life is basically my work with brief breaks for FaceTime calls and books and TV. Which is really depressing, honestly. But, yeah. I have  very strong workaholic tendencies–it’s kind of a thing that runs in my family, actually–and that’s what I tried to write this poem about.

My productivity has always felt very entangled with my self-worth, I guess. I’ve been having trouble even sleeping of late, because all I can think about these days is that… I could be doing something better. Should be doing something better, but I’m not, and even now I’m writing this on a tight deadline knowing I have, like, a billion other things I need to do today and lowkey panicking about it, trying to rush through my childhood–rush through the things that make me happiest–because it just… no matter how hard I try, it always just feels like I’m running out of time. I guess.

I don’t mean this to criticize working hard as a value. Or the internet, and technology in general–because I think both of those can be really beautiful things. But I also think that the culture surrounding it can be really damaging; this expectation that every element of your life has to be documented and shared, that every single second spent not, yanno, churning the wheel of capitalism, is a second spent badly. This constant pressure I feel almost every day, to put out as much content, as fast as I can, regardless of how actually good it is. And since I’ve been struggling so much with that of late, I guess I just kind of… decided to write about it.

How do you guys feel about that culture? How does it affect you? I’ve been thinking about this a lot of late.

Lots of love,



In this episode, I talk nervous habits, growing up with anxiety, feeling alone and the value of having a community.

Need to talk to anyone? Find a crisis line in your area here: https://www.suicidestop.com/call_a_hotline.html

Music: https://www.purple-planet.com

“Mimos Menguados” is from patrickdeartegea.com  and has also been edited by me.

Songs are “Reflection” and “Leave Without Me.” Both of these songs have been edited by me.

All sound effects made by yours truly! 🙂

The next episode will be dropping next Friday, 9a.m. PDT–make sure to subscribe/follow/add this podcast to your library/enable notifications on it to be notified when it comes out.

Find me on all my internet places here: https://linktr.ee/dragonwritesthings

And find this podcast all over the web here: https://linktr.ee/sonnetsofateenagewannabe

itch (spoken word)

trigger warning: compulsive/self-destructive behavior, blood mention.

As I discussed when I originally posted this poem, a little while ago, compulsive skin-picking has plagued me for a really long time–since I was seven years old, at least. It’s something I’ve been doing so long, I guess I’ve kind of learned to normalize it.

I wish I had some coping mechanisms to give you guys about this, because it’s a really hard thing to struggle with, and honestly there aren’t enough people talking about this stuff openly online. But to tell the truth, I don’t know what I’m doing any more than you do. I’ve hinted at it with my therapist a couple times, but I’m still terrified to bring it up any more deeply with her. (Ironically, I feel like therapists are in general probably some of the least judgmental people out there.) I’ve heard lots of stuff thrown around online, and tried some of them. But I guess nothing has ever really stuck with me, because deep down, it doesn’t feel like a problem I need to fix at all. It’s just something I do, and the only real drawback of it is, yanno, spending three hours on the bathroom convincing myself if I just make myself bleed a little harder it’ll heal over perfect, and glowing, and beautiful. (It never does.) And the weird trancelike place I enter, where I don’t even feel like myself. And the anxiety of constantly criticizing my appearance. And the deep-seated body image issues that make me feel that self-conscious are a huge part of why I pick at myself in the first place. But it still just sort of feels, no matter how much I try to reframe it, like a normal thing I’m just going to do no matter what, and that isn’t really harmful to me.

But mixing this piece was somehow just really therapeutic and helpful. And I think it was something I really needed to do. To just sit with this monster in my head, and try to understand it for a while.

Lots of love,


Continue reading “itch (spoken word)”

24 degrees

the humid air snuggles up close to me. and stays there. and my blood starts to come to a boil as i look into your eyes, because i hate you even more than i hate myself tonight. furious tears, dripping off my chin one. at. a. time.

and you know, they say the skies are rife with disease. say it’s never going back to normal. not completely. and some days, i can’t help but wonder. if this step could be the butterfly that causes the tsunami. if this is going to be the last time you get to see me…

they say i’m withering. like a parched august flower. and you know, maybe it’s time to empty out the vase. rather than just changing the water.

they say i am parched soil after a long, hot wildfire. crumbling under the slightest pressure. 

and the steam seeps into my lungs, air too thick to breathe. and little girl, is this too much for you?

because if this is enough to scare you… then you haven’t seen anything.