sandpaper

trigger warning: bullet/gun mention in a metaphor, discussion of beauty standards/implied body image issues

wear me down with your sandpaper words. crumble me to dust, and sweep me up, because you know i’m gonna fall. you know my no doesn’t mean anything, know i am but your helpless. paper. doll.

and i guess it’s high time i admit that, isn’t it? that i am but a little girl, and i am so fucking lost.

so take my hand, and guide me, to whatever you want to call the holy lands. and maybe it’ll never make me happy, but at least it’s something. at least it’s easy. at least it doesn’t hurt like this.

and you know, maybe you’ve got a point. maybe it was just a phase all along, and maybe i’m finally over it. little girl, for god’s sake, no one even cares you exist.

so sculpt at my thighs, until i’m skinny, and bite-sized. let my hair grow out, and die it just right. go ahead. i know there must be parts of me you don’t like. and maybe it hurts, maybe it feels like a bullet right to the head. but i won’t put up a fight.

because i am scared. and confused. and i would rather be yours than keep fighting alone like this, night after night. pushing, and pushing, and pushing against the tide. as my arms start to splinter. and ever-so-slowly, the tears finally start to dribble from my sleep-deprived eyes.


Yet another one of my teen burnout poems–which is a really bad title but also pretty much encompasses  a whole sub-category of my poetry.

I dunno, sometimes I really love doing all of this, and I feel really great about myself and super proud of it, and sometimes I want to burn everything I’ve ever written and never say another word again and also decide to reevaluate all of my life choices up to this moment. I guess work is just like that sometimes?

I dunno, I was talking about this with my friend this morning–how as a girl, and especially a teen girl, you’re told, over and over again–by 40 year old men on the internet, by your teachers, by overheard comments at school school, by messages you’ve been exposed to ever since you were a little kid–that you can’t do it. I don’t think I realized how profoundly that affected me until today, honestly. You like books? You’re a weird, crazy fangirl. You like TV? You’re dumb and shallow. You have your own unique style? You’re a dumb, rebellious teen. You like traditionally girly clothes? You’re shallow and stupid. I’ve grown up surrounded by the culture that whatever it is, you can’t do it, soley on the basis of being a young girl.

Honestly, that’s so much of why I’m not ready to run this platform under my real name. I don’t want people to think badly of me. Don’t want to offend anybody. I hide how old I am almost instinctively, because I’m terrified people will use it to judge me, and never admit to liking anything traditionally feminine.

I guess after a while, you just start to internalize all those really shitty messages. I use “little girl” in the place of my name a lot in poems–and that’s very much intentional. Because so often, that’s all I feel like I am. All I’ll ever be to society at large, no matter how old I am and no matter how much I accomplish. And most importantly, all I’ll ever be to myself. A weakling; a victim. Still nothing more than a small, helpless girl. Which is honestly such bullshit. I’m really trying to learn how to deal with that.

This isn’t to say that young girls are the only ones who are treated unfairly by society as a whole because of their gender—honestly, society is pretty shitty to young boys too, but I am obviously not male, and therefore really don’t feel qualified to talk about that experience.

On a lighter note, I’m considering just doing a little audio recording thingie of me just hanging out with my mic tomorrow if I get the time, maybe answering questions or doing something dumb with my friends over FaceTime–it’s been a while since I’ve just done something fun and pointless and happy with you guys, and I think we all could probably use something to take our minds off things for a while right now–so if that’s something you’d like to see, let me know in the comments! 🙂

Anyhow. No matter what’s going on for you right now, I’m sending all the hugs your way.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

a walk in the rain

and i can’t remember / the last time the world cracked itself open like this / and my hair got wet / and i splashed in the puddles like a little kid / and tried to pretend i didn’t wish you could see it / and it’s funny / how these days anything outside of my backyard feels / like practically a world away / and some days… i’m okay / and some days / i am a broken mirror / desperately trying to duct tape irreparable mistakes back together / and i don’t know how life / can be this way / heartbreaking / and beautiful / and silly / like one of those movies / that’s so fucking stupid / but here you are / four hours in / still watching anyway / and you say it’s old / and you say it’s bullshit / but at the bottom of your heart / you never really believed it  / and it’s strange / that in this moment / i can miss you like a sinkhole opening up in my chest / taking all the good things with it / and also know / that no matter what happens / we’ll get through it.


I know things are hard right now. And this isn’t to underplay any of that. I guess I’m just at the point in my life right now… where I don’t like this, but I also know that I can’t really change it. And I guess while all of this is happening, I may as well make the best of it. Try to… find some kind of silver lining or whatever, I guess. Which is not to say that things aren’t really shitty right now, but I’m also at a point where I can live with it. I don’t like it, but I can survive it. And it’s a good feeling–to feel strong like that. The closest thing to stable I can be, I guess. I mean, it’s not exactly something I get to feel very often.

Anyhow. I hope you all are hanging in there throughout everything going on right now.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

the yellow brick road

trigger warning: potentially disturbing imagery.

come on. just do it. just follow the yellow brick road. and smile, and laugh, and pose, as the glitter falls like rain, and the harp music plays. and come on. you can do it. just pretend you don’t notice the pain.

put on your pretty red shoes. adjust your gingham dress. and off you go. just like the stories said. and if you ignore the screams in the distance, or the rot writhing inside each and every magic pumpkin… it’s kind of beautiful. isn’t it?

and the vultures swoop down for what’s left of you. and you bite back a scream. but this happens all the time, you know. because you silly little girl, just do what you’re told. just keep walking. just let it go.

just take deep breaths. and ignore it, when the thoughts come for you, sharp needles piercing your skin. fumble for your thimble, and clean out the wound as best you can.

and it doesn’t matter what makes you comfortable. it matters what’s in right now. so curtsy, and adjust your lipstick, and you’ll figure it out somehow.

psychedelic colours. and maybe it’s a daydream. maybe it’s a nightmare. but this can’t be happening. not now.

or at least that’s what you tell yourself. as the blood dribbles down your knee. and it red stains on your shirts don’t even surprise you anymore.

as you stare at the ticking clock on your computer. watching. as you get older, and older…


This is gonna sound really self-congratulatory, but I’m actually so proud of this piece, I don’t think I’ve ever written anything like it before. And that feels good. Really, really good. I don’t know if I’ve felt this proud about a piece in a while. I don’t really know where it came form, I don’t know

 

hands

it’s been a long three months. or whatever.

and every day, i tell myself that i can’t take it anymore, and yet somehow i manage to. and it makes me want to cry, but i guess… there’s a certain kind of power in that too. that you didn’t break. even when you wanted to.

and i miss everything about seeing you. miss dancing around your kitchen like idiots, and finding dumb things to investigate on the internet. and finally understanding what the books meant, when they said i felt infinite. because you made me happy. even if only for a moment.

and i miss your hands. holding onto mine. even when i hated myself. even when i couldn’t stop crying. i miss doing the same for you.

miss not being afraid like this. because at this point, i can’t even remember what normal is. and i’m not totally sure that i want to.

but i do know… that you made me feel safe. in a way i don’t think facetime calls will ever truly replace. and i just… i really fucking miss you.


Ah yes, another lonely social distancing poem. I did not intend to write about this stuff as much as I am, but I guess it’s one of the only ways I honestly know to cope right now. I know I probably shouldn’t be letting myself think about this much, but I’ve been… thinking about the future of late, even if it’s bad for me. About if I’m ever going to go back to even some semblance of normal, or if the world is. I mean, I know, I’m probably just being melodramatic and stuff, but it’s still a scary thought. That this could be my life. And that what’s happening now isn’t going to define me, sure… but I also don’t think I’ll ever forget about it either. You know what I mean? Every time I think about things going back to normal, my brain instantly goes into anxiety mode.

I feel guilty for things that we’re allowed to be doing in  my area–like, even though right now we’re allowed to double the amount of people we’re in contact with, all I can think is that in other places, things are worse, and then I kinda start thinking about “maybe I shouldn’t leave the house at all” and then… yeah, it all goes downhill from there. Schools are reopening in June, and I guess… yeah, that’s a thing. I don’t know how I feel about that, or what I’m going to do. Honestly, I feel like school is going to be stressful as hell, and probably won’t stop reminding us about coronavirus literally ever–it’s just a hunch, but with my experiences with the school system, I would bet money that they’ll be making us write essays about this, and stuff like that–when all I want to do, all I need to do to survive this, is forget about it, until it’s far enough passed that I know how to deal with it.

My current plan is to sort of gradually expose myself to the environment and stuff–my therapist thinks that’s a good idea, anyway. Spend some time on campus, just reading on the field or something, and then maybe walk around before anyone gets there, and then try and catch up with one of my teachers for ten minutes, or something like that–since not maybe people will probably be there, and in that regard, I guess it is a pretty good opportunity to deal with my crippling social anxiety.

Anyhow, I guess what I’m trying to get at here is… things have been really lonely of late. And although I’m trying not to focus on it, sometimes those feelings just sort of peek out, and I guess this poem was my best attempt at processing that.

But I have to believe, for the sake of my sanity, that I will somehow manage to make it through. Just like I always do.

 

so i’m a sad thirty year old now, apparently

the stars are out. and i should be asleep. like every single part of my body is telling me. and i can’t handle this, and yet somehow… i can’t stop doing it. because at least there’s one thing i’m good at, despite everything.  

and there’s something so addicting, about whole worlds sprouting out from my fingers. and maybe if my life in the real world is over, i can just… escape. forever. 

and i should be proud. but i don’t know how to be. and all accomplishment brings me these days is this weird moment of empty. and i’ve been working on this for so fucking long, that i’m starting to hate it, honestly. and doing what i love shouldn’t exhaust me.

but at this point i’m just… i’m too tired to care anymore. so whatever. just let it be. let the jewels of my mind drift down to the ocean floor. let the dust settle on the pages.

i don’t want to do this anymore.


I have this long running joke with my friends, about how lockdown is slowly turning me into a sad thirty year old, hence the title of this poem. Basically without having friends or whatever my life has been reduced pretty much work and only work, as I’ve probably mentioned before. Like, when I wake up, I don’t think “oh, I’m going to do this fun thing with my friends!”or whatever (because there is no fun thing I’m doing with my friends). I think “what do I have to do today?” And I do it, with more like these little quick intermissions for my life to happen–FaceTime calls and watching movies and reading books and stuff. I guess I’ve just been raised with this really toxic, horrible culture, that work is everything, work is your worth as a person, and you’re never going to be able to do the things you love, no matter how hard you work–because most of success is just having a rich family with connections mixed with random chance. And although I wish I didn’t believe that… I don’t know, I guess I still can’t help but wonder sometimes.

And these days, it just feels like work is… kind of consuming me, I guess. Ever so slowly. Like, I don’t know what my life is without it–and I don’t want to. Because I know I can do this, and do it pretty okay, considering my age. But I don’t feel the same way… about being a person. Honestly, I don’t have a clue how to do that. So instead, I just bury myself in deadlines and projects and responsibilities, and… I stay there. Because it’s easier like that.