the mesmerized city whispers its name. and it all makes sense, suddenly.

aching shoulders, and the ground beneath my feet. breath in my lungs, wind in the trees…

so just let it go. and leave it be. and let the bridges crumble. surrender my body to the ever-churning lies of history.

force your eyes wide open at two in the morning. hold the crushed glass in your palms, and tiptoe through the debri.

i prick my finger, like a half-ass sleeping beauty. but… i’m old enough to know now that no one’s coming to save me.

If I had a dollar for every time I’d been told to stop worrying about the future and live in the present, I’d be rich enough to… I don’t know, buy so many plants that they would gradually consume my entire house and eat me alive in my sleep. Okay, yeah, that metaphor is not helping prove the point.

Aaaanyhow. My point is, I am the type of person who’s financial planned out into my thirties; who’s got a monthly budget and an earning goal per month to help me save up to afford to rent or buy an apartment when I’m older. I am the type of person who freaks out when plans change, and who goes insane not knowing what exactly I have to do in a day. I like to know how my future is going to look.

But I get so caught up in that sometimes… well, I know this sounds cliche, but I lose sight of what’s actually happening around me.

I’m just so terrified by the passage of time. By the knowledge that I’ll only get to do this once, and I could mess it up, but… I mean, you can’t mess it up if you can’t do anything at all. Right?

Lots of love,



i… i am a dried up riverbed, burning alive in the heat of summer, as the crickets chirp, and the people laugh. eyes stained dark with wonder.

teeth long and crooked, voicebox trembling with strange, frantic desire. and what came first? the witch, or the pyre. how many more skeletons i can stuff in my closet, before they catch fire?

and i think that the animalistic shudder of your voice will always win. the endless hours stretch on, stained with pixelated colours, peeling skin…

and that familiar, acrid smoke. an age-old enemy; eyes soft and rosy with the aftertaste of thunder. his words a neverending din.

and maybe it’s self-care. but… maybe it’s just giving in.

I don’t really remember what I posted in quarantine, honestly those three months just felt like one big blur.

But if I was being honest, which I try my best to be on this blog, I would have told you about how much I was struggling to process all the things that were going on.

Throughout the lockdown, I was only able to keep myself out of a depressive episode by denying it was happening at all. I told myself that I was staying home because I wanted to. That my friends had left me, or moved away, or died. And over the months, they became little video game characters, dancing across my phone screen–weak imitations of what they used to be.

Was it great? No. But it was the only thing that got me through those four months without slipping into a really dark place–with no one there to help me see the light.

I told myself, then, that once this was all over, I would deal with it. I would sit down with my therapist, and let it all out, and I would give myself the time I needed to process from a safe distance.

But, I mean, you can only hold it in so long, I guess. Because that time I thought of in March… well, that time is now. I am more scared of COVID than I was during the actual lockdown, and whenever I hear about it on the radio I go into a panic. And it just… it all hits me at once; everything I held in back then.

I don’t know if I made the right decision. Or if, given the option, I would make it again. But… I do know that it feels like I’m drowning sometimes. Reliving it, a thousand times more terrifying than it actually was. And I don’t have a therapist to help anymore. I’m all on my own.

For better or for worse.

I go back to school tomorrow. (Tomorrow as I write this, today by the time you read this.) I’m in Canada, although to be honest with you the whole reopening plan for regular school seems iffy at best. But because I do my work via a computer, and I can set my own hours for how much I want to go into school, I’m not too worried–you have to sanitize your hands before going into the computer lab, everything is socially distanced, and honestly it’s sounding pretty great from my perspective. I mean, if I have the option to share a computer lab with the only other person who signed up, and never have to get within twenty feet of them, I am down for that. Still a bit nervous though, to be honest–because change is scary. Because facing this stuff is scary. (Also, yes, that is why there weren’t as many posts this week!)

But I know that… sometimes, the thing you’re afraid of is a lot more dangerous in your mind than it is in the reality. That sometimes, when you face it, it’s not really as bad. That living with anxiety is facing your fears every single day. I’ve done it before, and I will do it again.

Lots of love.


off the deep end

last night, i crashed my bike. on some stranger’s driveway. i cried, like a one year old.

like a little kid. with her crocodile smiles, and her eggshell bones…

cried, because i love too deeply. and because i don’t want things to change. i don’t want to say goodbye. cried myself a river, like was fucking going to die.

and watched as the bruises grew wider; creating something of an abyss.

last night, i stared at myself in the mirror. wiped away all the blemishes, and did my hair. pinched my cheeks, until they looked like wrinkled up newspaper.

I’ve read before that getting upset by small things you wouldn’t normally is usually a sign of depression. Which explains a lot of how I’ve been feeling of late.

I lose my keys, and I started crying yelled at my dad. I fall off my bike and can’t stop crying. I can’t find my shoes, and I feel useless and stupid.

Most days—especially since I’ve been going through a pretty nasty rough patch of late—have been hard. Not gonna lie. I am holding myself together, and I am doing what I need to do. But I am doing it by a thread. And the second one thing goes wrong… I lose it. I fall apart. And I pick myself back up again.

And in all honesty, it’s been feeling… like the odds are just tilted against me these days. Like fate, or whatever, is just doing everything it can to make sure I fail. Like I’m just being slammed against the rocks, again and again, and sometimes it just gets so exhausting to keep fighting.

To get out of bed. To take a shower. To get dressed. To pull myself out of the deep end every single day. It is exhausting, and boring, and stressful.

It is hard. And I will do it anyway.

Lots of love,



the blood drips off my fingers. and i should just fucking go to sleep, but the charcoal hatred lingers…

and i can’t breathe, as a thousand razor-sharp teeth devour me. so let’s call it a superpower. call it anything, but the emptiness, congealing in my bones. but my burnt matchstick limbs; threadbare diary pages suddenly exposed.

my cheekbones splinter, the words spilling out of my papercut tongue faster and faster. i sit cross-legged in the garden, laughing maniacally as the flames drink up that silly. little. aster.

but i’ll write a happy ending for. just like i always do. paper maché gates and a glimmering castle. you’re running out of time, little girl….

at this rate, no one’s going to remember you.


it’s kinda hypnotic. the longer i spend following the spiral down, down, down as i search for the end. end, buried deep beneath these caverns of gold.

and so i’ll follow, follow, follow. i’ll do as i was told. cheap plastic, shattering beneath the slightest pressure. don’t i want to get old? sit atop my rocker, telling tales from a bygone world…

of a time, when the periwinkle sky granted me a single drop of mercy, and you told it to leave me the fucking hell alone. when endless hallways screamed my name, and i drowned in the maze of bone.

but right now, maybe i just want to stop. maybe all i want to do is prick my finger, on another goddamn spindle. fall asleep on my cardboard throne.

let the pulsing fear begin to dwindle. and hope that someday, i’ll be able to atone.

It’s a lot, sometimes. Everything happening on the news.

I want to disclaim this post with that–well, although to be honest it is exhausting to see, I am in no way the victim in any of the situations going on right now, or the most affected party. I don’t want this to come off entitled, or self-centred. But at the same time, I think discussing how all the news affects us, and taking care of our mental health as best as we can is very important. That’s my intent in writing this.

I’ve been trying to keep up to date with the news throughout the pandemic. I guess it was a habit I picked up around March, when quarantine started, and never really dropped. So after I wake up, the first thing I do is check my phone–usually log onto Tumblr, Instagram or Twitter, intending to post something, or check out what some of my mutuals are up to. (Or that’s the excuse I make to myself anyway.)

But inevitably, I end up finding out about some bad thing that happened while I was asleep. Then, I’ll usually google it, and read a basic news article informing me on the situation. Read another one. Have a complete breakdown, gradually feeling more and more disgusting and/or making myself increasingly late for work. But I just lie there, paralyzed on the floor. The background anxiety of that will often stick with me for the rest of the day

I come from a family of activists. My mom–who grew up during the Cold War–went to protests from a very young age, and often tells me about how formative that experience was to her. My great-grandparents were huge activists for nuclear disarmament, sticking to that cause literally until their deaths. Every summer, my mom and her sister would fly to Ireland to stay with them. I was actually named after my great-grandmother.

Anyway. One time, when my mom was staying with them, she had gotten all her clothes too dirty to wear. So she was sitting outside of the washing machine wrapped up in a towel, waiting for the laundry to finish. My great-grandfather came up to her, and asked her out of nowhere: “What are you going to do to save the world?”

All my mom wanted to was something clean to wear. She was ten years old.

As much as we’ve laughed at that story–I think it really illustrates the culture of obsessive responsibility my mom–and then I–have grown up in. (Many times, my parents have asked me the same question.)

I grew up with the mindset that the needs of the public far outweighed your own; that if you could learn more about something, it was your responsibility to find out all the horrific details, no matter how hard it might be to handle. And then, it was your responsibility to fix it at all costs.

But as I’ve grown older, I’ve started to realize… that kind of mindset isn’t sustainable. If I’m going to do the best I can to make the world a better place, I can’t consistently do that at the cost of my own wellbeing. That only leads to the place I’m in now–of constant paranoia and paralysis to do anything about an issue.

Anyhow–I’m still grappling with this, and trying to figure out how to set healthy boundaries without turning a blind eye, if that makes sense. If you’ve struggled with something similar and have any tips–or just want to share your experience, feel free to let me know. 🙂

Lots of love,