i lie awake at night and all i can do is hate my body

trigger warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts, weight-related issues. if you need to talk to anyone about whatever you’re going through, find a crisis line in your area by clicking on the word here.

i lie awake at night, sometimes. and all i can do is hate the way i’m trapped inside my mind. and think about the future. and think about how much i hate my body just for not. being. tiny. and hate my head, for not working right. because i just wish i could magic away these bones, sometimes. i lie awake and i can imagine what it would feel like. to die. and i guess i’m addicted to the idea of that. because i just want the sky to stop collapsing for a second. just want to not feel the weight of my self-hatred crushing my skull only to remould it all over again, only no matter how many times i make myself anew it’s never perfect, like i need it to be perfect, because i will hate myself until i’m perfect— i lie awake at night, and it’s like 1a.m., and god i just need to go to sleep, and try my best to forget. forget. forget. because at this exact moment, if there was a potion i could take to wipe everything away, maybe i would take it. maybe i would wish myself dead. and this isn’t how i always am. it’s just… right now, i’m a fucking mess. right now, i am looking in the mirror and if i could rip myself apart i’m telling you. i’d do it. i’d remould this fucked up head and this fucked up body, and i would be better. i would be better. i would be better. i would gently carve the knife across my skin, and focus on the pain until everything else just kind of disappeared, only this time not forever. i would be better—only i wouldn’t. i wouldn’t be better. because self-harm does not make you better. because drinking poison for the 56th time does not make you better. because… i can’t change my body. but i can change how i treat it. but right now i just… i don’t know how to do that.


i just came down with a cold/fever thing, so being productive has been pretty hard, since all my body wants to do right now is spend the entire day flopped like a slug on the couch watching mindless tv or rereading my favourite books or taking a nap something, but somehow i managed to edit these poems! if you missed it, check out the new youtube video i just posted by clicking on the word here, i’m super proud of it.


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it is august 16th, 2019, and i am officially a mess

after flatsound, kind of. a little bit.


trigger warning: self-harm. if you need to talk to anyone, no matter what you’re going through, find someone to talk to in your area by clicking on the word here.

and you call it depression. but it’s not depression. it’s just… a box, i guess. a box, nestled softly in my chest. and it’s august 16th, and i am officially a mess. and i am officially the kid who doesn’t know whether or not her therapist is telling the truth about this. and it’s just that even though i feel like shit right now, i know in a moment i’ll be over it. i just don’t know how to be okay with the fact that i don’t want to hurt myself today. and you can call it depression, but it’s not depression, because i still want to live it’s just for a moment, i am the empty room and every lightbulb in my head has short circuited. and you call it depression, as i hug a pillow and speak in sandpaper-voices. and you call it mental illness, and that feels about right, because right now, i just feel so fundamentally sick. so maybe i will cough up my problems. and maybe i will fall apart in your arms.. and maybe someone will fucking think long enough to bring me flowers, because i don’t think you understand that this is hard. having a brain that wants you dead. not knowing how to touch you without falling apart. and not even knowing how to speak. and living in the dark, because outside is worse, or maybe it’s just your head. or maybe it’s just your stupid fucking broken heart. it’s hard. because this is war. only… this is the kind that no one gives you medals for.


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it is 12a.m. and i do not sleep

it is 12a.m. and i don’t want to know whether anxiety and self-hatred are hereditary. and maybe the reason i hate mirrors so much is because every time i look in one, i see the broken shards of you nestled deep down inside me. and  because maybe the fact that people i have never met still affect me is the single most terrifying sentence anyone ever could have said to me.  it is 12a.m. and if you’re willing to burn to get what you need, what’s the difference between who you are and who you want to be? it is 12a.m., and my fingers sleepwalk into the keys, only everything i write feels ugly to me. it is 12a.m. and i melt my eyes closed. it is 12a.m. and the thoughts race through me, but only when the light goes out, and if the light never goes out, my thoughts will never come for me. and i will never call myself weak. will never have to  face whatever messed up shit my brain comes up with, the moment i fall asleep. it is 12a.m. and i don’t want to be tomorrow. i don’t want to be out of control. i don’t want to be cold. and i don’t want to know. i don’t want to know what i did right, and what i did wrong. i don’t want to know that the world is falling apart. i don’t want to know i’m not good enough to stop it. i don’t want to fucking know. so it is 12a.m., and the darkness presses in as my eyes slam closed.


this poem is about a lot of things, but one of those things is my family’s history of mental health issues. it’s something i think about a lot, and something that’s really affected me. i don’t know what i’ll do with this piece, or if i’ll even do anything with it beyond posting it here, but here you go anyway.  if  you liked this poem, consider reading the rest of my work, giving me a follow, liking this post, or leaving a comment, if you have the time. thanks for reading! 🙂

and if you need to talk to anyone, click on the word here to find a crisis line in your area.


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swallow

trigger warning: self-harm. if you need to talk to anyone about whatever you’re going through, find a crisis line in your area here.

so i’m talking to my therapist. in the kind of way, where i’m just barely holding back the tears because i can feel them. rising like a tsunami in my chest. and i will try to swallow back the ocean. i will try. but i probably won’t be very good at it. and so i’m talking to my therapist. and she asks me why i do this. and so i swallow back the pain, bubbling like lava inside my brain. and so i’m talking to my therapist, and she tells me i need to stop tearing myself to pieces. and so i’m crying on the couch, because i’m fucking tired, and i just wish i could make everything stop for a second. and so i hold the knife to my skin, and i wish i could cut myself. or punch myself. or hate myself enough to snuff every feeling in my chest out, out, out. but honestly, i’m too exhausted to do anything right now. and so i swallow back the pain. and so i’m talking to my therapist, and it’s just hard to tell her. about this. this mess in my head. this empty part of me, that refuses to believe anything she’s ever said. and i’m so fucking exhausted, is all. and i know this is weird for me, but right now, i don’t want to be heard. or seen. or felt. or known. because the thoughts whip through me, like the kind of trains that just want to get away from home. and i’ll fold this poem,  for a while. live inside it. and pretend it’s some kind of hideaway that i can stay behind in, all on my own. and i’ll lie awake all night. and the rain will pound. and i’m supposed to be stronger than this. because i’m supposed to be better than this. because i’m supposed to be more than this… and the tears will dribble down my cheeks. and i will stand at the edge. and i will not have the heart anymore. to hate myself enough to keep doing this.


august has been really hard for me, in a lot of ways. i thought i was getting better, and for a while, my mental health really was improving. summer is always tough for me; i always jokingly refer to it as “mental breakdown season.” and i thought, for a while, that i was actually making progress. although i’m starting to pick myself back up again, the last couple weeks have been really rough for me. so although i’m starting to do better now, it feels like it’s been forever since my mind hasn’t been heavy this way. i wrote this poem a couple weeks ago, and then revised it to post up on the blog.


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grown up

grown up(1).png


it’s just… sometimes, it just feels like i’ll only ever be worthwhile if i’m normal. and by normal, i mean perfect. and by perfect, i mean grown up. grown up like i can handle this myself grown up like grinding myself down to nothing and today is the kind of day where i hate myself but i hate myself less with coffee so therefore that has to mean that mental illness isn’t even a fucking thing. and that has to mean that you should just grow up, because everyone else has love. and why the fuck are you like this?  and just please stop and don’t feel like you’re drowning in other people’s emotions, because god we just have too many emotions. and coffee tastes like insomnia, and insomnia tastes like productivity, and productivity tastes like hope, and 1a.m. smells like solitude and solitude means no one can control me. which is ironic, given the fact that i am controlled by my anxiety. and maybe i’ve only ever told myself that this is all i’m worth.  late nights and treating my mind like a machine and it’s all ok as long as i can just pump out more poetry, and more stories, and more poetry. and it’s nearly midnight. and what i’m trying to say is i’m tired of chiselling myself to nothing and wondering why i feel empty all the time.


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