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 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. ❤

-dragonwritesthings

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are you proud of me?

are you proud of me? i’m sorry if i messed up. i know things have been rough lately. 

are you proud of me? do you still love me? did i do something wrong? i just need to know for sure. i don’t know who i am if someone else doesn’t approve of me.

so are you proud of me? is there anything i could have done better? thank you so much for even breathing in my presence, because i’m so terrified of being indebted to anybody.

are you proud of me? i’m sorry for using big words to talk about my problems, i just don’t know how else to communicate them, honestly.

are you proud of me? for growing as a person, and for having the mental stability to brush my hair and pick out a different outfit than yesterday? for not breaking down in the middle of class, and maintaining a steady social life, and telling my therapist that everything’s all right. when it’s not all right. but i have to say something, so… i guess that’s it. fine.

are you proud of me? for falling apart on the bathroom floor when no one’s watching, whispering apologies to the mirror.

over and over and over and over


Approval is really hard for me. I think with mental health, very few things are black and white. There’s a healthy degree of validation people need… and then there’s a point where your primary source of love, validation, encouragement isn’t inside you, it’s on the outside–and the problem with that is that that can be taken away from you at any time. Other people’s compliments, love, acceptance–we need it. I think having outside support is a lot more important, at least for me, than the world makes it out to be. But we also need to know that we can hold that love inside us. We need to be able to keep it going, even when there’s no one to support that–I don’t know, or maybe that’s wrong. I’m honestly a bit of a mess right now, so probably not the best person to give advice about this topic and all of these musings could very easily be wrong. 

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this is me

this is me. and if you don’t like it, i will not be remaking myself in your image because i’ve been there. and i’ve done that. and honestly, fuck you. this is what i was meant to be. 

this is me. and i am not a toy. i am not yours to torment. i’ve wasted enough of my life being someone else’s puppet.

this is me. and i’m not your disney princess. i’m not your token dramatic teen with mental illness.

this is me, and yeah. sometimes, i have two anxiety attacks in one school day. or i close the bathroom door and fight the urge to fade away. and i fall apart. and i make so many mistakes.

but where were you, when i made tapestries out of my broken pieces? when i somehow found the strength to pull myself out of this darkness?  this is every part of me that refused to be silenced. 

this is me. this is writing at 1a.m., or sobbing uncontrollably.  this is the stubborn determination to do it anyway

this is hope. despite the inferno on my hands, and the freezing cold. this is the first beam of sunlight, warming my skin after all these years alone. and maybe, maybe, maybe this is what it feels like to finally come home.


This poem is based off the song “This is Me” from the movie The Greatest Showman, a song that’s been really influential to me in the past couple months. I don’t know if it’s good or not, but honestly I just needed to write it and share it with the world. 

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november 22, 2019

trigger warning: discussion of mental health stigma, implied self-harm/thoughts of suicide. please be safe while reading, and if you feel like you’re a danger to yourself, please reach out for help. you’re not alone. find a crisis line in your area here.

well, it’s passive, right? so they probably shouldn’t worry about it, at least not tonight. because you’d never actually do anything, and as long as you continue to fake a smile everything should be fine.

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

so stuff cotton balls down your throat. ignore the gag reflex. because 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.

because you’re making them uncomfortable. you know?


Sometimes it helps to just… dump out all the self-hatred onto a page. I don’t know. Sometimes, I really beat up on myself for being honest about my mental health issues. For speaking up about how I feel, even when I’m scared to. This poem was my way of dumping out those feelings onto a page and trying to understand them; see them from a different angle. But I just want to say that the things I talk about in this poem are lies. Every single one of them are lies. They’re also things my brain likes to make me believe are true. Your voice matters, and you deserve to be heard in the world when you have a story to tell, provided that story isn’t about silencing anyone else’s. Always. Even when not everyone is receptive to it. ❤

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