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

november 29, 2019

it’s been a long time since i’ve been alone like this. since the monsters have shouted in my head with no competition, and i have closed my eyes, and just… let it all happen.

it’s been a long time since i’ve disintegrated like this. stared at a blinking cursor all morning, trying and failing to convince myself to do something. anything. even if it won’t be perfect. you made a to-do list for a reason, and wasting time isn’t on it.

and my hands are going numb. and the earth is starting to spin. and for all the times i’ve glorified my suffering i hate having to feel like this. 

and i should be getting back soon. should be going faster, because i have shit to get done. but… that would mean facing myself. and owning up to who i am. and admitting that i’ve got problems. that there’s a hole in my chest i need to do something about.

but if i acknowledge that there’s a problem… i don’t know if i’ll be able to live with myself.


Being alone is weird for me. It’s not a bad thing, exactly–just really strange. I wrote this while I was home alone at night, and just… had a lot of thoughts going through my head. Anyway, check out the spoken word version of this poem here, and I hope it meant something to you all. ❤

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october 28th, 2019

this is the perfect time to stop answering my text messages. as i’m clawing myself out of quicksand. screaming for someone to help. but no matter how hard they try, no one can save me from myself. 

because i’d rather be sad and alone than out of control. rather be respected for a lie than infantilized for a truth buried deep. down. inside.

so call the lightning bolts a show of nature. ignore the cities burning down across my cheeks. let me cry in the corner and please just ignore me. i’m begging you to ignore me.

because i never asked for you to love me. and if this is how you care about me than maybe i don’t want you to care about me.

maybe i was right all along. maybe i’m just… one of those people who’s made to be lonely.


I’ve been really struggling with cutting myself off of late. I’m normally not that kind of person, like I’ve probably said in earlier posts–communication is one of my strong suits, so it’s weird to be struggling so much with it. This was written and shoved in my queue ages ago, probably around the date the title says, but even a month after having probably written it, this still hits really close to home for me. 

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pretending it’s a happy ending, or something like that

that feeling, after a therapy session, when for a couple hours, mental illness is just this vague little iceberg off in the distance. high heels and pop music and positive quotes and let’s just pretend nothing’s happened.

that feeling. slightly plastic. and you know it’s going to shatter, so just you wait for it. get black lipstick and waste your parents’ money and learn how to wear it, because maybe makeup can feel like normalcy. or something like that.

drown your thoughts in the flicker of the screen light for hours on end. because that’s easier than feeling anything at the moment.

today you saw the psychiatrist. you tried to pretend that mental illness was something pretty, or cute, because maybe that makes it easier to live with. and yeah, i admit it. i do that to myself. all the time, actually, to be honest.

and i know it seems like everything is going great on the outside. but when this is your life. when this monster is what you have to sleep beside… it just doesn’t feel that way, all right?

this isn’t a happy ending. i’m not okay. i’m not anywhere near okay. right now, it doesn’t even feel like i’m getting better. 

i don’t know who i am anymore.


Of late, numbness and burying my feelings, in general, have been… on my mind. I don’t know–of late, I’ve just been feeling really tired. I can get through the day, I can do everything I expect of myself, even maybe exceed those expectations some days. But once I’m done that to-do list? I just want to sleep. Or read, or hang out with friends–anything but being alone in my head. I don’t even know what I’m so scared of. It’s kind of ridiculous. But of late, I’ve just been feeling… really tired, of all of this. Not in a suicidal kind of way. Just in that kind of way where you wish you could make time stop, and you could close your eyes, and fall asleep, and just kind of… disappear for a while. Does that make sense?

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october 18th, 2019

trigger warning: self-harm, general heavy topics

i can’t stop doing it.

until there are battlefields all across my skin, as i reopen another little wound yet again, and somehow… don’t really feel anything about it. because it’s normal to take out your fears on your body, isn’t it?

every time i see myself in the mirror, i want to shatter the glass. so maybe you can understand why right now, i don’t want help. i just want you to look away, and pretend i don’t exist.

because i won’t be good enough for the monster in my head until i don’t exist. because i have to tear myself down, bit. by. bit. until there’s nothing left but a ruined statue, or a tragedy, or whatever it was you wanted.

 and it’s so close to normal, until it isn’t any longer. and i’m so close to fine, until… i don’t know how to stop myself anymore. 


I know I trigger warning’d this poem with self-harm, the best term I could think of, but that’s not really what this is about, I think. I don’t know, it feels more complex than that. So here’s the whole story. For a long time, I’ve struggled with picking at my skin–opening little wounds, again and again, as a way of dealing with anxiety, Scratching at myself. Demolishing my cuticles, tearing off little bits of skin without even realizing it. Compulsively fiddling with a wound when I get nervous. I don’t know what that is, I don’t have a diagnosis or any way to categorize it, but I do know that I struggle with it. It’s one of those things I don’t really know how to talk about–partially just because when you’ve been doing something so long, and especially since a young age… well, you learn to normalize it. You forget… that other people don’t live like this. So decided to write about it. Just a little bit. Even in the kind of quiet way I doubt most people reading this will pick up on.