siren song

i am lost at sea. i am a shell of who i once was, just trying my best to collect the broken pieces and figure out who the hell i want to be.

in between bouts of self-destructive tendencies. the heat exhaustion writhing in my bones; as i hold still, and brace for the hypnotic thrum of the dial tone.

i’m not all knowing. i’m just some kid, at 1 in the morning shouting out into the void. but the currents of cheap stardust… well, they keep going.

so i am a shipwrecked sailor searching the parched desert sands, for splintered pieces of wood. or… i don’t know. someone who understands.

look, mommy…

look, mommy! i’m doing it. just like you showed me. and yeah, maybe i stayed up all night. but i wrote a story, and people liked it, and that’s all that matters, right?

because i gritted my teeth. and i did it. worked all week long, without a single day off. and isn’t that what you wanted?

a knight in shining armour. a china doll. a soft peach tea…

because i hollowed out my rotting chest, and stuffed it full of feathers. lay perfectly still, and let the world rest its head on this broken body–

mommy! you’re not looking at me


I doubt this comes as a surprise, but I am a big ol’ people pleaser. I always have been.

Whenever I make something–a podcast episode, a poem, a story chapter, so much as a weird doodle in my math notes, I immediately start to wonder what other people will think of it. You know the drill, right?

I am so desperate to be seen, and loved, and validated–because god knows I couldn’t do it to myself. (And at the same time absolutely paralyzed by the thought of being known, but you know.)

When I was young, and bored on long car rides, or never-ending school days, I used to just spend hours narrating my life in third person. Whenever something bad happened, I could always just… pretend it away. Imagine that this was all just another story, and that I just had to hold on a little bit longer before the author would fix everything. Or maybe I was the author. Or maybe I was the hero, just getting started on my journey to greatness. I spent a lot of my childhood thinking about that.

Reminding myself that it didn’t matter, how fucked up my life was. Because soon, Gandalf or Dumbldore was going to swoop down from the clouds, and turn me into something better. And them my parents would love me. Then my friends would worship me. Fill up all the holes in my heart with mindless adoration.

As someone who grew up classified as some form of “gifted” I learned, however unintentionally, that my worth as a person hinged upon me being able to outshine my peers. Often, I thought of myself like an animal on display at the zoo, or a circus freak—a little strange, but still fun to watch, as long as I could keep a good performance going. And sometimes I feel like I’ve lived most of my life with that mentality.  As though my only real purpose is to be amusing, or remarkable, or something along those lines—to my family, to my friends, to my teachers, to some stranger on the street. And if I let down the act for so much as a second, no one will be interested in me.

But sometimes, that just gets… lonely.  And exhausting. You know?

Anyhow. I don’t know what the point of all that was, but I hope you liked my poem, and that is spoke to you. Somehow.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

polaroid

i am faded paper, and greyscale eyes. waking up with a headache, and not knowing why.

and i am begging you to pick up the phone. but you never did care. so you won’t. and you’ll leave me, stranded in a run-down alley, all on my own.

so i’ll bury it; beneath check-marks and to-do lists; a constant, thrumming debate. but despite my glimmering hope, none of those things ever really did take off the weight. just made me scared, and selfish. and desperate for escape.

but here i am; staring into the mirror, at a face i know all too well. and don’t you remember being ten, writing for hours on a shitty computer; laughing like alice as you fell?

or that night, in eighth grade, your first time using a microphone. but despite the hummingbird pulse of your heart… something about it felt like home.

and in that small moment. despite my sagging eyes and weary bones, as the midday light hits my broken skin, i feel… whole.


For the first time in a while, I really feel… I don’t know, like writing can be something I actually do for myself—and not just for, I don’t know, capitalism? A bunch of strangers on the internet? The voices in my head?

I just… I feel like something new. Something alive. A new leaf, I guess, pushing up from the ground. (Is that a really cheesy, overused metaphor? Probably. In my defense, I have a job gardening and I just got off, so my brain is a little bit fried—if I see one more invasive vine, I think I’m going to explode.)

Suddenly, I remember exactly why I fell in love with writing. And even if no one else is ever going to care about it, even if it won’t get me rich, it doesn’t matter. Because as cheesy as it sounds, I know that this is what I am meant to be doing. And I can’t help but feel like… like everything I had to go through to get here was worth it. That it happened for a reason. And whether or not that’s actually true, sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through the hard days. The days when everything feels heavy, and impossible, and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and give up.

For the first time in my life, I look in the mirror and like who I’m becoming. I like her twirly dresses, and her tousled brown hair. I like her round, soft cheeks, and her tan lines, and her freckles. I look in the mirror, and I see someone who is strong, and alive, and maybe just a little bit of a badass.

And I think that’s pretty fucking cool.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

far, far away

she is musty air; a humid day. she is collapsed on the ground, about to crash out. watching herself from far, far away.

she is long, rambling poems, and photo prints. rotting hay. the ashen scent of self-hatred; just barely kept at bay.

an aching back, and tired eyes. and we’ll tell her to stop. we’ll beg her to sleep. but she won’t listen. because she may be young, and stupid. but she will not be weak.

even as the spots start to form in her vision. and as yet another scab forms on her cheek. and maybe she can’t breathe anymore, but… it’s fine. it doesn’t matter.

and at least she has a stack of dollar bills to love her, at the end of the week.

i fall asleep with the lights on

i still sleep with teddy bears, sometimes. clutch an empty body close to my chest, listening to the steady thrum of your heart like it’s all that i have left.

and i still get nightmares, sometimes. wake up covered in a cold sweat, the wild west wind brushing gently through my hair.

i still sleep with the light on, sometimes. when i get scared. when the monsters under the bed start to growl, and all i want to do is vanish into thin air.

listening to disney music on repeat like some kind of twisted prayer, and imagining the notes can somehow replace you. but they can’t.

and… they don’t want to.