ya novel protagonist

today, i am a ya novel protagonist. except… i can’t do anything about this. and the world falls apart before me; armageddon unfolding live on tv, and maybe nothing is ever going to be okay again.

because the people i love could leave. and everything i’ve worked so hard to build up could fall apart in a second.

today, the walls collapse in on me. but maybe, if i squint, i can still imagine my life pretty. and yet no matter how hard i try, it still won’t mask the stench of this reality.

today, the laugh track plays as i try to wean myself off this obsession. but i can’t. i can’t do it. because the honest truth is… i don’t know who i am without it.

and i tried asking the stars for help. yesterday. but all they did was laugh down on me, their eyes twinkling with pride. and they told me… little girl, don’t lie to yourself. you’re nobody.

and, i mean… they’re not wrong, honestly.

My therapist says it’s bad self-talk, but no matter what she tells me… sometimes, I just can’t help but feel just a little bit broken. It’s panic-writing-on-a-Sunday-night-because-I-never-learned-healthy-work-habits-and-go-between-completely-ignoring-all-of-my-responsibilities-and-working-for-eight-hours-straight hours, so I really can’t remember how much detail I’ve previously gone into about this. But anyhow, essentially the deal is that I had a pretty unconventional childhood, even if you leave out my mental illness, which manifested at a very early age, it often feels like there are these… missing pieces, I guess. Things I should have learned or experienced–but never did. Memos the other kids seemed to all get, and I just… missed out on. And more than that, parts of my brain that just refuse to cooperate with me, no matter how hard I try and force them to work with me. Like I’m just barely limping through my life, because no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to truly experience it in any positive way. Does that make sense? I’m damaged goods, is what I’m trying to get at. The broken piece of pie, the sad, drooping lettuce, an old laptop that won’t turn on.

And, like, what are you supposed to do about that? How do you go on? That’s a question I’ve been grappling with for a really long time, and what I tried to base this poem on.

Anyhow, I am very tired, and chugged a very intense and mildly disgusting matcha latte to get this post done (which I am starting to regret) so hopefully you enjoyed, and now I’m going to try and sleep. Maybe I’ll proofread this tomorrow or something; hopefully it’s coherent.

Lots of love,



you’re watching me. i can feel it. laughing, as i trip, and fall. fixing my hair, and makeup, because dear god, little girl, this can’t be all

you’re coming for me. no matter what you say; i know. and i won’t stop you, when you stuff me in the backseat, my wrists tied up. after all… i’ve nowhere else to go.

so i stand here. and i wait. my heart, drip-drip-dripping, down the drain. as i lie on the floor, waiting for the world to fade away.

you’re closing in on me. i can feel it. with every pounding heartbeat, every thrashing footstep. there’s no point trying to stop it.

because i don’t know what i did exactly, to earn this punishment. but whatever it was… i know i deserve it.

I’ve often been told I’m my own worst critic. And that’s very much true. In social situations, I’m constantly trying to envision what other people would think of every little thing I do. There’s a whole entourage of voices in my head, feeding off my paranoia and fear. Often, it feels like everyone is watching me, like if I so much as breathe the wrong way someone is going to hurt me. Ruin me. Using the metaphor of a jury, ruling on my every decision–no matter how minor–is something I’ve toyed with for a long time, and tried to write into a poem many, many times; mostly with very little success. But I personally really like how this poem turned out, and I’m generally pretty satisfied with it–and I hope you like it too. 🙂

Anyhow. That’s… that is social anxiety for you, I guess. What are you guys’s experiences with social anxiety? How do you deal with it?

Lots of love,



these muscles are made of steel and dried up bones; found between the shifting desert sands, and you have to keep going. because if you don’t, you’re going to die alone.

these muscles are made of sink-or-swim mentality. a stubborn desire to survive against the crushing pull of the tide…

these muscles were made of nights spent alone. wondering if i’ll ever truly be known. this strength was made of broken gods, and lessons learned far too early…

these muscles were borne of fury. the childlike determination to never again let you help me. because i’m better now. don’t you see?

but sometimes… on a good day… i get tired of being angry.

because this strength was borne of hope, too. despite everything. stubborn dreams and storybook endings, stitched together carefully.

set in stone by the simple act of reaching out a hand. and entrusting my life to your gravity.

Throughout my life, strength has meant… a lot of different things to me. When I was younger, strength was independence. It was being able to handle myself, without any help. It was being able to hold back my emotions–and yeah, to a degree, being able to regulate your feelings and understand when you need to hold onto them, and when you need to let them go.

But as I’ve gotten older; grown and changed… what I define strength as has changed. Because I know this is cliche, and it’s been said a million times before, but being able to admit that you’re struggling before a complete stranger–it’s one of the bravest things a person can do. And the me who never let anyone in, who insisted on doing everything on her own wasn’t really strong at all. At that point in my life, I was probably the most fragile that I’ve ever been.

Now I’m officially out of therapy–which is a whole thing, by the way. I don’t know if I’ve mentioned that on the blog yet, but, uh, yeah. My last day was on Monday, and it’s been… probably the longest three days of my life. I’ve kind of been reevaluating my whole life, to be honest, and thinking about a lot of things–and this poem is one of the many things to come out of that. I’m not sure what’s going on in my life right now, but… I feel like I’m on the edge of breaking through, somehow. Like for the first time in a long time… I have a small grain of hope.

Lots of love,


bleeding heart

the tulips are dripping with grief / and bloodshed / and oh my bleeding heart / you saw this coming from the very start / didn’t you? / as you are borne / fresh-eyed / into a world made anew / a shining god / with glowing arms / made just for you / but the fields of daises covered / in neon chemicals / and superglue / and the violets / are just starting to split in two / and your favourite dress is pilling / and when the roses scream out for your help / what are you going to do? / your skin cracking / the books piling up around you / and you need to get up / you have a job to do… / the buttons / fall one-by-one off of your favourite shirt / and you’re never going to find a good replacement / are you?

Things have been… well, they’ve been pretty difficult for me of late. I don’t know, sometimes I do this thing where I know there are all these things I need to do, but I don’t want to do them, and then they start to pile up, and then that starts to get so overwhelming that I just sit there, paralyzed as my life falls apart around me, getting increasingly panicked… and it’s a whole problem. I didn’t really know what to write, but I’ve been having a bit of a poetry block of late, so today I made myself sit down, and write a couple poems, and I guess this is what came out.

Lots of love,


rot (spoken word)

trigger warning: self-harm. crisis lines are here if you need them.

I write a lot of poetry about feeling numb because honestly, although I try really hard to make sure I write about different topics, and don’t repeat myself too often–but at the same time, when something’s on my mind, it tends to get written down at some point. However, this is one of my favourite depression/numbness poems I’ve written as of yet. It’s really late as I write this, and I used up my last brain cell mixing this piece frantically and cursing myself for not getting it done sooner, but the general point is that I’m proud of this piece. 🙂

Lots of love,


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