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.

september 20th, 2019

trigger warning: self-harm, suicidal thoughts. please be safe while reading, and if you need to talk to anyone, my mental health resources post is here.

scissors. and the blade at my finger. and the bedroom light, and the silence, and the text messages gradually trickling through. but it’s all right, because these wounds that still won’t heal? i deserve it. i deserve to be in pieces on the floor. i deserve the water rising in my lungs, and the suicidal thoughts. and don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry. because i’m too tired to be a mess again. and why am i so tired… and why can’t i stop running through the motions of this life, as every day goes by like sand in the wind and it’s coming too quick, and i take in a breath but there’s no time to let it out because there’s scissors, and the bedroom light, and my stomach flipping itself inside out and whispering good night. good night. good night. because it’s probably not healthy to stay up writing until way past midnight. and if only writing out the entire story of my life were as simple as sketching out an outline. because it all seemed so much simpler in the outline… and why is my mind just a pile of broken, flickering neon lights? and why am i a signpost on the side of a highway in the middle of nowhere, and i need to know where to go but the letters are blurred, and the power is out, and the shadows flicker across every decision i’ve ever made because it’s never too late to cast the past in doubt. and i can’t process any of this. so instead i’m sitting here. past midnight. slamming at a keyboard. like if i write hard enough, it’ll all drip out. out. out. and i’ll be able to meet someone’s eyes without having a breakdown, which is more than i can say right now. but if that actually works, why isn’t this mess in my head cleaned up by now?


of late existing in general has been really hard for me. i’m hanging in there, and i’m safe, but… it’s hard. if you follow my writing, that’s probably pretty easy to figure out. everything is so confusing right now. this spiral of not-knowing that feels sometimes like it’s just going to tighten, tighter and tighter. swallow me up completely. the end. that’s irrational, it might paralyze me, but confusion can’t kill me. this poem was written about a specific incident, on september 20th, 2019, when i just felt… like a horrible person. writing this was the only way i knew how to really deal with it.


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august 29th, 2019

because i need to make up my mind eventually, right? and that means it has to make sense eventually, right? even though no matter how hard i try, i still can’t figure out how to make all the pieces align. because of my stupid, anxious mind. and maybe you’ll roll your eyes, and call me a teenager, when after a week of not seeing you it feels like the entire world is over. or maybe you’ll tell me i’m a moron for not being sure. and if my gut instinct says two things at once, how am i supposed to tell you what i decide? and if i scream up at the clouds like a maniac, maybe everything will stop for a moment. and maybe then i’ll finally be able to tell the difference between wrong and right. because i can’t sleep, and  i can’t breathe, and my mind is made of origami paper, and i’ll laugh like everything’s fine, as you unintentionally crush me between your fingers. even though i can’t even think without my thoughts crashing into each other. because i don’t know, okay? i don’t know what the truth is anymore.


big decisions are always really rough for me. and confusion. honestly, confusion is one of  the most underrated negative emotions. i don’t know if a lot of people with anxiety go through this–but sometimes it feels like follows me everywhere. when i was eleven was the first time i remember feeling really confused, i think. i have this really distinct memory: it was, november or december, dark and stormy outside. my class was having a discussion about charles darwin. and i wanted to make a joke, because i wanted people to like me. but then i realized not everyone would like me if i made a joke. and some people would like me more if i was myself–but if who i was was constantly influenced by what other people wanted, who was that? what was an identity anyway? in the big picture, what did it matter what i wanted for myself–there were more of other people than there were of me, and so therefore if more people wanted me to act a certain way shouldn’t that have a bigger impact than what i thought of myself?

and i still remember that feeling–like you’re standing out there all alone in the middle of a blizzard, and you open your mouth to call out, but every time you try, nothing comes out. it’s gotten better, obviously–i have a lot stronger of a sense of identity than i did back then. and most of the time, i’m fine. but confusion definitely still impacts me.


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july 13th, 2019

please capitalize / please use / more frequent spaces / spaces in my heart spaces / and my heart pounds / and my heart pounds / and this worry is kind of all i am right now / all i am now / all i am now / newspaper article i hate the look of my face i hate myself / i hate myself right now / so i am redesigning all my book covers on wattpad because i hate myself right now / and i hate that i gave you everything i had and it still wasn’t enough / and you still didn’t understand / and good god it doesn’t even matter but right now it feels like it / and i try to brush past it but my mind / snags / just a little bit / which is better than my skull caving in i guess / which is better than me hurting myself again i guess / and i’ve been through this before / and i know this story off by heart the one / where i destroy myself because for a second / i can pretend i’m destroying someone else / because i just get so angry sometimes / the kind of anger / that feels less like anger and more / like fire / and your whole body is a bomb and you’re inches away from falling apart / please capitalize / like i asked for your opinion on this subject when i fucking didn’t / except i guess i kind of did because the second you gave it to me i instantly defined myself by it / but if you were looking for a sign / i just want you to know / that i’m stronger than my worst days / because i’m strong enough to tell you i have worst days / i’m strong enough that i didn’t ask for you to rewrite my poetry for me / i didn’t ask you to tell me who i am / i do not want you to control me / and you don’t control me / and i understand you have an opinion / and i’m not going to be angry / but i am what i am / and i am going to speak / and i am going to smile / because i’m proud of myself / and because my emotions are not defined by you / and i’m going to try / whether or not you want me to


i’m really bad at dealing with criticism. which is ironic, since, you know, over the  years, i’ve gotten a fair bit. but i kind of think that’s why it’s so hard for me to deal with, to be honest. when you’ve been given so much of something–especially in an unconstructive way, and you don’t know how to process it, the only other option left is to fear it. i’ve been that way for a long time. little incidents are enough to send me over the edge–even being teased in a nasty way, or being touched when i wasn’t expecting it. (i wrote about this a little more in “landslide.”) i didn’t write this poem to be an instruction manual. i just wanted to process these feelings, even in a really messy, panicked form, and get them out in the world somehow–even if i’m the only person who will ever understand this poem completely. so… here you go.


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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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