lilac grove

trigger warning: implied misogyny.

oh, sweetheart… you’re scaring me.

so please. could you just stop clutching me like a rag doll, muttering threats that always go over my itty-bitty little head. because i’m just a girl, after all. and shouldn’t girls be stupid?

shouldn’t they twist the lock closed, and throw away the key; spin around in lilac groves, and allow the floral-print dresses and aching perfume swallow them whole; get down on their knees, and beg their fathers oh pretty-pretty-please?

lean in close to the mirror, and highlight all the parts of themselves they don’t like? slice them off with a dirty kitchen knife; and throw their imperfections as far as they can out to sea.

the wind to gnaws at my shoulders. as the ice-cold water buries me. and i… i don’t think i’m ready…

young lady

i’m not your kid. i’m not your baby. i’m not your puppet. and i don’t need you to save me.

so if they’ll say what they will, then i’ll take it all in. watch, as my perfect locks catch fire, and my fists turn bloody. i’ll let you win.

let it rot, and fester, melting into my skin. let the barbed wire encase me, and the ceiling fan brainwash me into complacency.

listen. just a bit. when late at night, it calls to me.

don’t you want to settle down? don’t you want to have a family?

it’s time you got your act together, young lady.

Gender roles infuriate me.

I mean, that’s probably pretty obvious from the feminist-rant-y nature of this poem–and the other one I posted today, which has a bit of a different angle, but I wanted to delve a bit deeper into that.

To be honest, I’m in a fairly lucky position. I haven’t ever had to deal with catcalling so far, and for the most part haven’t had to deal with too many obvious aggressions related to my gender.

However, that doesn’t mean I haven’t felt the effects of misogyny in much subtler ways. Like the constant assumption that my whole life revolves around meeting a guy, getting married, having kids, and settling down. And the constant dismissal from society as a whole, of pretty much everything I like as a young girl, because whatever it is it must be Inherently Bad, because as a young girl I am Inherently Laughable and Stupid. How my whole life, I’ve had it instilled in me that no matter what, I will never be safe–even in my own body. Some of it is internalized stuff I inflict upon myself, and some of it is external. And as small as those things are, they fucking suck.

In some way or other, I think it’s a part of how my workaholic tendencies developed. Because from a really young age, it’s felt like the world is only going to let me succeed in it if I work so hard it’s forced to take me seriously. And yeah, sure, as a kid I can want to do all these great things. But in the end, all that matters is getting married to a rich guy, buying a nice house, and having kids, because if you don’t have children What Is The Point, and if I actually dare build something for myself without a man’s assistance I’m automatically a cutthroat, miserable person.

And sometimes, I can’t help but wonder if no matter how hard I try, it’ll ever be enough. I don’t know. Maybe a lot of it is just my depression/anxiety brain.

But either way, it’s something I’ve been thinking about of late.

Lots of love,


only really lonely people buy their clothes from the boyfriend section

i miss your arms. the way they melted into mine. how i didn’t feel like i was going to die, for once in my fucking lifetime…

i miss the gentle pain, just barely kept at bay. as i opened my eyes, and welcomed in the new day…

i miss the sound of a busy school hallway. because in my head, it’s a beautiful, rosy-pink hue. it is cute outfits and love triangles, the cracks in my skull sealed up with superglue.

because don’t you know, that only really lonely people buy their clothes from the boyfriend section. because at least if you squeeze your eyes closed, you can pretend that your cheap blue jeans smell not of rubber and chemicals, and clean-pressed lines.

but of someone. anyone. there, right beside you.

With school going back soon, my depression levels have just been through the roof. Back-to-school is never an easy time for me, but with the added anxiety of a potential second wave of coronavirus, another lockdown leering over me… well, I’m not going to lie, it’s been a lot of why I’ve had so much trouble posting, or doing much of anything of late.

I guess that pre-COVID, I really hoped this year could be something like a nice high school experience, if there is such a thing. Not perfect, but nice. A year with lunch hour in the library, making friends with my teachers, and walking into the village near my school and window shopping. A year of doing things. But right now, I’m not sure I’ll even physically be going to school. (I have that option, since I do most of my work independently, via a computer.) Or that I feel safe doing so. I still don’t even know what school will look like, and I’m going back in, like, two weeks–but it’s been complete radio silence from my teachers.

I just really don’t want to spend all year feeling sorry for myself, alone in my bedroom. I could do it–and pass easily; I’ve done it many times before. But God, I don’t want to.

Despite how much I’m seeing my friends, it’s been a really lonely couple of weeks, I guess. And sometimes, it’s hard not to just throw the towel in. Lie down, and give up–you know? Cut myself off preemptively, long before I’m told to.

I just feel really robbed. I know this is nowhere near the worst thing that this virus has caused. But it’s something I’ve been dealing with, and I think a lot of other people my age have been dealing with too–so I felt like it was important to talk about.

Lots of love,


periwinkle blue

roll down the window. so i can feel the summer air whisper sweet nothings against my cheeks; hear the laughing children; smell the red-hot gasoline…

because if you just look right into the sun, until your retinas start burning up, don’t you miss the good old days so desperately, when everything was perfect, and you were young?

when you were miserable, and lonely, and dumb…

so take me back. to a time when the sky shone a gorgeous periwinkle blue, as the leaves pirouetted off golden-brown maple trees. when you nudged my shoulder, and i smiled back at you.

to pink gingham dresses; love letters, and morning dew. a fairy tale kiss that never even happened.

but god, do i miss it…

Hey guys! I’m so sorry about how this post came out before it was actually done, now you know how terrible my rough drafts are? Ack, I’m super embarrassed, basically what happened is I had been working on a story chapter for, like, five hours straight or something ridiculous, and I was way too tired to finish blog posts and have anything good come out of it, which is a problem I really need to deal with, but that’s another story. Anyhow, I scheduled it to come out at 9am on Monday, and got up at 8, but I didn’t finish it in time, walked away from the computer, it came out automatically, I freaked out, scheduled it to come out at four, but at four I was on the phone and completely forgot about it, so it came out again, and now here I am finally fucking editing this properly, and hopefully this coming out on Friday isn’t too much of a let-down. I’m so sorry for the confusion, I hope you like the poem anyway 🙂

Lots of love,


scream into the pillow

cotton-candy dreams; tie dye shirt and light-wash jeans. and don’t you just wish that the bloodstains, soaking into your carpet would finally fade out?

close the door. and crash into your pillow; trying to ignore the silhouettes of kings and queens, staring down at you. but it has to be worth it. because you are nothing if not devout.

hold your breath, and count down the seconds. scrub away every last scrap of doubt.

as their words begin to strangle you; a hundred thousand screams, and shouts. as the neon signs remind you of all the things that you just can’t live without.

long sunday afternoons spent in your bedroom…. as the drought of suburbia starts to set in around you.

bloodstains scattered through page after page, spelling out my doom. and there must be something i’m forgetting about… because i don’t know what’s true.

Full disclosure: I am writing this far, far later than I really should be. I normally try and edit one poem a day, so I can post four pieces every Friday, but in reality that just doesn’t always happen, because, well, I’m tired, and I have a life and a job and a lot of other projects going on, and…. yeah. It’s a lot.

The way I learned to work… well, I always saw it as something you give your whole self too. An all-consuming god you were destined to spend the rest of your life slaving away for. I guess I was always kind of all right with that idea.

Of course, as I got older and actually started to take on projects and got my first jobs, I obviously realized that level of dedication is not physically possible–or if it is, I’m not cut out for it, and I do need to sleep sometimes.

Which lead me to where I am now. These insane spurts of productivity, where I’ll spend eight hours straight with at most a little coffee break writing, and recording, and editing–mixed with long, endless days where I just don’t want to do, say, or feel anything; when I ignore any and all impending deadlines. Days when I am just so tired.

And they feed off each other; because obviously at some point, usually very late at night, I’m going to wake up from my confused, exhausted state, and realize that I have a weeks worth of work to get done in the next four hours… and then enter what I like to all “Alexander Hamilton” mode. (You get it? Because Hamilton was a writer too who would work non-stop to get what he wanted, and to be honest a concerningly relatable character for me… okay, yeah, I’m just going to stop and go to sleep now.) Anyhow, then I get tired–and go right back into depression, and the cycle continues.

Anyway, it’s a bad habit. And one I really wish I could drop.

Lots of love,