the deadly poppy field of oz

i’ll run my hands through the knee-high grass. eyes half-closed. i don’t remember how i got here… but i’m here now, i suppose…

and why won’t this place let me go? because every time i try to run away, the garden wall will press in; cuddling me close. stuffing my baggy lungs to the brim; with newspaper flyers and hypnotic smoke.

and it will refuse to leave me alone, you know? because i will be young. and small. and broke.

and so, like dorothy, and oh so many who’ve come before me, i’ll surrender myself to the perfect august sun.

and you may take me. you may swallow me whole. and you may run.

you may blow me out like a candle. smother me, as the bedsheet catches fire. as your walls begin to crumble. i’ll be a summer seedpod; as i come undone.

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

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.

february 23rd, 2020

you smile. as your fingers melt away into the snow. and as the paper flowers you gave me start to crumple, and wilt. as time continues to fucking flow.

and i’ll make it perfect. because i swear to god, i’m sorry for every crumple, every crack in my soul. 

and i’m sorry i wasn’t the supergirl you wanted me to be. i’m sorry i couldn’t fly, couldn’t lift up the stone columns as they fell under the weight of the sky.

i know. i know. i failed you, all right? you don’t need to say it again, until the words are etched into my bones.

but it’s a lot, okay. expecting the world from yourself every single day. staying up so late that in the morning, your eyelids sorta turn to stone.

chiseling away the last remains of baby fat from your cheeks with a kitchen knife and letting

it

go.


It’s been… a really hard week. I don’t actually remember when I wrote this, it’s been in my queue since dinosaurs roamed the earth probably, but… oof. This pretty much perfectly describes how I’m feeling right now.

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.