november 18, 2019

2a.m., and the world rolls out before me. city lights and a pounding heart and trying my best to forget that the future exists because i’m not ready for this. i’m not ready for anything.

2a.m. and i’m trying to believe in myself, but what does that even mean?

2a.m. and goddamnit, when will this be over? because i just want to sleep. want to close my eyes, and feel nothing for a while. but i guess with a mind like mine, that’s not really possible.

2a.m., and for my birthday i would like to live. i would like to not feel the weight of anxiety constantly bearing down on me. black, and white, and black, and white slowly suffocating me.

2a.m., hotel room, and i’m stranded in the foreign city, and it’s all so big, and ruthless, and maybe life is too fast for me.

2a.m. and i can’t believe this is happening. can’t believe that people care this much about me. that this is my moment in the spotlight.  this is my chance to prove it. but after all i’ve done… i’m still not sure i’ll be able to do it.

Wrote this about the night of a big performance I was feeling really nervous about. I was really up at 2a.m., I kept waking up in the middle of the night I was so scared about it. It actually turned out amazing, and I’m so glad I did it, but, well, anxiety sucks, and my brain isn’t always reasonable about things, and also it was the kind of situation where I think most people would have been at least a little jittery about it. Listen to the spoken word version here. Find me on PatreonYouTubeInstagramWattpadTumblr, and on Twitter.

november 18th, 2019 (spoken word)

Hey guys! Just got some new recording gear in the mail (no more sad, staticky laptop mic!) so I thought I’d give it a test run, and recorded this, and I’m kind of ridiculously proud of it, so I hope you all like it too. Read the text here.

Song from Traffic sound effects by Poem by me.

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november 16, 2019

trigger warning: self harm mention

oh god. not again. could you please just shut up? no one has the time for another stupid teenager being dramatic about her problems like this. 

and if it’s passive, we probably shouldn’t worry. because you wouldn’t actually hurt yourself or anything. right, baby?

darling, you don’t have mental illness. you’re not even a writer. i mean, who are you kidding? this is just a phase, and i’m sure you’ll grow out of it someday.

so stuff cotton balls down your throat. ignore the gag reflex. it’s not your job to talk. so would you just goddamn shut up? this is a normal, happy society, after all.

and things are the way they are for a reason, you know. even if they’re stigmatized, and stupid, and horrible. and you’re just a kid. it’s not your job to interfere in the world like this. it’d do you some good to just learn to let go.

let. the. fuck. go. 

I’ve been berating myself for talking about mental health a lot of late. As always, though, I just want to say that this isn’t fact. None of the things in this poem are things I believe, they’re not even things there’s any reasonable evidence for. It’s mental health stigma, and it’s irrational, and it’s stupid, and I’m not sure where I picked it up from, but over the years, it’s something I’ve really internalized.

If these are thoughts you’ve had about yourself, I know not much I say will really change your mind, deep down–you have to do that, not me. But just know that for all the times it doesn’t feel like it, your voice matters, and there are people who would love to hear it. So whatever you’re going through, please keep fighting. And find a crisis line in your area hereif you need it. ❤


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i think i’m going to explode

and if you don’t know what i’m talking about, maybe you’ve never had anxiety. maybe you’ve never felt your heart pound, and your thoughts race, and you’re too tired to feel like this but you can’t help but worry anyway. 

maybe you’ve never been awake this late at night writing poetry, because you don’t know what else to do with your life. as your stomach crumples inward. and the voices scream, and as it starts to fall apart.

and it’s your fault. it’s your fault. it’s your fault. and it’s my fault, it’s my fault, it’s my fault…

and something’s going to go wrong eventually. you’re going to do something wrong eventually. you are going to explode eventually.

did i ever mention that sometimes living with a brain like this feels like a disability?

Another anxiety poem. I’ve been really struggling with perfectionism lately.

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i’m fine

golf ball in your throat. but swallow it down anyway, and take the pain the same way you take your morning medication, because whatever. you’re going to be fine in the end, and it’s not like your problems really matter.

so go ahead. tell them you’ll be fine. tell them there’s nothing they can do, but thanks for asking, all right?

even though you’re not all right.

because i don’t want help. i don’t want company. and i get it. you love me. but i don’t want you to save me from myself.

and i’m not fine. i know i’m not fine. i know we’re driving home, and i’m crying in the passenger’s side. but i don’t really want to talk about it. so can you do me a favour, and just pretend that i’m not even here? that everything is fine? 

because honestly, i just want to disappear tonight.

Oof, this is a super-cliche topic, but it’s still been something that’s been on my mind a lot. Normally, I’m actually really good at communicating what I’m going through. But of late, I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about keeping it to myself, and really slipping from my usual self. And to be honest, that is terrifying. So… I wrote a poem about it.

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