you’re gonna go far, kid

i don’t think you’ll ever quite understand, until you feel it. the fire licking at my bones; i will not fail again, i will make myself be known.

and the audience feels like it’s miles away, as they clap, and whisper you’re gonna go far, kid–you’re gonna make it big, someday. and when you’re seven years old, living in a storm cloud, i guess that sounds pretty great.

and so my brain grabs onto shit like this, and doesn’t let go. i guess i run with it. take the path of least resistance. i stare my demons straight in the eye. so i work harder, and faster, and stronger, until no one can hurt me, not even you. and now it’s 12:07, and i wander through a graveyard alone, and try to puzzle it out in rhyming lines of poetry.

but i just can’t do it. because there are some things even hot glue and desperation can’t fix. but you said i could do it, you promised and you lied and and now it’s 12:25. and i guess i just can’t help but wonder, if i’d been different, if my brain had been better… would it all have still turned out like this? or would i be high above the clouds you showed me, when i was seven years old. with my castle, and my riches?

but it’s just conjecture. meaningless.


This is the most melodramatic piece ever, and I’m totally gonna be so embarrassed by this in a few years. But whatever, that is a problem for later.

I’ve spent my whole life seeking approval. I don’t think I’m particularly unusual in that. As a kid, I remember learning what I could get praise for, and what I couldn’t. I remember modelling my entire life at the time around figuring out how to get praise out of the adults in my life, mould myself into exactly what they wanted, almost instinctively. Maybe that’s a little weird, I’m not sure.

For me, the thing I got praised for was my achievements. Doing better than everyone else in my class, getting a good grade, you get the drill. I don’t think I’m particularly talented, or gifted or whatever drippy word you want to use–I’m just a very stubborn kid who was placed in an environment, where from a very young age excellence seemed like the only option.

But for most of my life, people have told me how much potential I have, about the career they think I should lead, or the courses I should take, or the university I should go to. Telling me I’m smarter, or I’m better, or whatever–which I know, sounds like a really dumb thing to have a problem with. But learning the only way you can get praise is by being better than other people all the time is, uh, not the best thing to internalize when you’re seven, let’s just say that. Because from that point on, your entire self-worth becomes dependent on constantly outdoing yourself and your peers every second of every day, and if you can’t do that, your entire identity is gone.

It’s just weird, I guess. Because no matter how much other people cheer for me, or praise me, I still feel hollow, and empty, and other people caring about me doesn’t make me feel any better. Which is hard. I don’t know, it’s just something that’s been on my mind a lot of late.

Lots of love,

Lorna

lighter fluid

drown it in whisky. i’m bored of this toxic cycle, of this endless stream of words; love letters addressed to nobody. so bring out the lighter, and worship the growing flame. i hope the ash buries you. i hope the sky turns grey.

i want to watch the cities burn, i want to watch the stars flake off like old paint. because i don’t know, it’s pretty, in a morbid kind of way. and once you start, you just can’t stop, and pretty soon i’m lying awake at 12:32a.m., wondering where the hell i went wrong.

pretty soon, i’m waking up with frost on my fingertips and watching teen rom coms all day, because god, i wish my life could be like that; bursting in colour, with a vibrant cast of characters, and sure we fight sometimes, but in the end we all love each other.

and i try so fucking hard, you know that? to be good, and smart, and strong; your golden little catastrophe. i read the warning signs, and i followed the directions, and i don’t get it. this wasn’t supposed to happen to me.

i thought i was better. i thought i could do this. which is arrogant, and stupid. so watch me douse this whole mess in lighter fluid, and set it ablaze. because it’s a cold december morning, and i have to burn something, okay?

calamity

some nights, i have a hard time falling sleep. so i just stare at the ceiling, for hours. wondering how much time we have left, before the next calamity.

and you know, one time, i saw this post on pinterest. about how pessimism is just lovely. because you’re either right, or pleasantly surprised, or paranoid, and hopeless, all the goddamn time.

because it eats away at you. when you’re not looking. when you’re on a walk, when you’re watching tv. and you won’t even notice until it’s 1am, and you open up safari on your phone, searching for things like i’m scared and help me.

until your shoulders slump, like the weight of the sky is rested upon them. until your patience is slowly chiselled away. and it’s all so broken, you have to laugh. a little. despite yourself. because fuck it all, anyway.

because it’s been weeks since i’ve gotten a good night’s sleep. because i’ve grown numb to the headlines, but sometimes, i check the news and just cry. and i think that this system has been broken… for a really long time.


i hope you win.

oh, you burning child prodigy. with your long, spindly fingers, slamming down on piano keys. an empty auditorium; nights without sleep.

oh, you technicolour fever dream. oh, blemishes and bruises, blooming on my skin. stretch marks and scars; my neverending sin…

oh, you masterpiece in hiding. slowly crumbling to the floor. you desperate atonement, you don’t have to hide anymore.

oh, bonfire girl. oh, shattered violin. you dutiful daughter, you loyal friend, you perfect little nightmare.

i hope you win.

i don’t know what to say

trigger warning: self-harm and suicide mention. need to talk to anyone? resources are here.

it’s been ages since i’ve really written poetry.

and i don’t know. things have been crazy. and every day, my life gets harder. and every day, my stack of things to do grows taller. and my head starts to ache. and if i stare in the mirror for long enough, i’ll always find another aspect of myself to hate.

so i guess it’s easier. to just spend hours lying in bed, sweaty clothes and tired eyes, and burying myself in internet culture. because i don’t know what to write anymore. 

and did i tell you about the other day? about how i cried for most of the night. and i did two twenty-question math tests, back to back, and i started writing a suicide note, and i thought i might pass out, and i studied for six hours straight, and everything i tried to write came out underlined in red.

and did i tell you about how i missed therapy? because i’m sick, and i’m tired, and you know when you start forgetting appointments scheduled weeks in advance that you just don’t care anymore.

did i tell you that where there used to be all these feelings in my chest, now there’s mostly just… dust, and sand, and emptiness? tell you about how much i miss the idea of being carefree and innocent, even though i don’t think in my entire life i’ve ever felt like that? tell you about watching disney movies and needing every second of it?

did i tell you that i cut myself? that i don’t think i’ll ever really stop doing it?

or did i mention that my drafts folder is empty, and my fingers are bloody, and… i don’t know the words for this anymore.


I think this is a definitely very experimental style, but I’m proud of it anyhow I guess. I think I wrote this a couple weeks ago, in the depths of a mental breakdown, but at that kind of point where you know you need to write something, and in that moment… that was this.

-dragonwritesthings