reminiscence

you don’t remember it all that well. but it happened, didn’t it? if the photo albums have… anything to say about it.

and as your fingers graze through the layers of dust, cough a little, and wipe the years of history off on your cream-coloured dress.

you don’t remember it all that well. and yet you’re still shattered into pieces because of it. and sometimes, it all comes rushing back. and sometimes… it’s okay. you can move on, now. it doesn’t have to define you for the rest of your life, and you are so much more than all of the things other people may have said about you.

and sometimes you are there in my head. telling me who i am. and what to do. pinning me to the wall by my shoulders. and maybe i’ll stay there forever. because i would never want to upset you…

sometimes, i look you up on instagram. and i wonder what you’re up to.

but it’s long past time now. come on, little girl. wipe away the dust, and clear out the shelves of the stories they gave you.

it’s time… it’s time to write something new.


I’ve always been the type to get stuck in the past… well, more than a little bit. I’m definitely guilty of holding a grudge, and developing strong opinions based off past experiences. I think we all are, at least to some degree–it’s human nature.

And it’s also something I’ve been considering, of late. How, well, reflecting on the past is great, to a degree. But it can also be incredibly destructive. I’ve spent so long living my life based off what happened to me when I was seven. And… I’m not seven anymore.

For ages, those memories have governed everything I do, and honestly, it’s getting kind of old–living this kind of half-life, because all I can think about most days is keeping myself safe from ever being bullied like I was then again.

I’m just… I think, after so long, I’m ready to leave all the painful memories from that period of my life in the past. Not to forget that it happened–but to give it a funeral, and lay flowers on its grave, and take a deep breath… and move on to something new.

It’ll still come back to me, sometimes. Of course it will. And when it does, I will remind myself that I’m safe, and that things are better now. That I am worth so much more than the things that people said to me as a kid. And that I deserve to move past this. And so do you.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

ya novel protagonist

today, i am a ya novel protagonist. except… i can’t do anything about this. and the world falls apart before me; armageddon unfolding live on tv, and maybe nothing is ever going to be okay again.

because the people i love could leave. and everything i’ve worked so hard to build up could fall apart in a second.

today, the walls collapse in on me. but maybe, if i squint, i can still imagine my life pretty. and yet no matter how hard i try, it still won’t mask the stench of this reality.

today, the laugh track plays as i try to wean myself off this obsession. but i can’t. i can’t do it. because the honest truth is… i don’t know who i am without it.

and i tried asking the stars for help. yesterday. but all they did was laugh down on me, their eyes twinkling with pride. and they told me… little girl, don’t lie to yourself. you’re nobody.

and, i mean… they’re not wrong, honestly.


My therapist says it’s bad self-talk, but no matter what she tells me… sometimes, I just can’t help but feel just a little bit broken. It’s panic-writing-on-a-Sunday-night-because-I-never-learned-healthy-work-habits-and-go-between-completely-ignoring-all-of-my-responsibilities-and-working-for-eight-hours-straight hours, so I really can’t remember how much detail I’ve previously gone into about this. But anyhow, essentially the deal is that I had a pretty unconventional childhood, even if you leave out my mental illness, which manifested at a very early age, it often feels like there are these… missing pieces, I guess. Things I should have learned or experienced–but never did. Memos the other kids seemed to all get, and I just… missed out on. And more than that, parts of my brain that just refuse to cooperate with me, no matter how hard I try and force them to work with me. Like I’m just barely limping through my life, because no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to truly experience it in any positive way. Does that make sense? I’m damaged goods, is what I’m trying to get at. The broken piece of pie, the sad, drooping lettuce, an old laptop that won’t turn on.

And, like, what are you supposed to do about that? How do you go on? That’s a question I’ve been grappling with for a really long time, and what I tried to base this poem on.

Anyhow, I am very tired, and chugged a very intense and mildly disgusting matcha latte to get this post done (which I am starting to regret) so hopefully you enjoyed, and now I’m going to try and sleep. Maybe I’ll proofread this tomorrow or something; hopefully it’s coherent.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

some things i think when i see my body

trigger warning: blood, body image issues, self-harm

too fat. all boxy. weird hips. wrong thighs.

scabs across her cheeks, like some kind of battle wound. chapped lips; bad makeup. salty tear residue.

baby cheeks. ugly smile. bad wrists. and no matter how hard this little girl tries, there’s always going to be something wrong with it.

and when i look in a mirror, sometimes i can still feel it. that time last summer i scratched at my stomach until i drew blood, desperately searching for a way out of this prison. and it never fixed anything. did it?

but… i don’t know, this body has been through some pretty hard shit. and i’d rather look like this then go back to the way it used to be. constantly chasing after whatever pain they called beauty. because beauty means love, right? and love means happiness

love means freckles like stardust. and… i don’t know. i like my shoulders, i guess. 

love means eyes like nebulas; a smile that doesn’t have time for your bullshit. and it’s ok that you’re tired. you don’t have to be perfect. this ribcage is no longer a battleground. no one’s gonna hurt you. 

you can lay your weapons down.


I have a very strange relationship with body image, and often a very fraught one. I guess this poem was just a small way to talk to myself, and make sense of all these crazy thoughts spinning around in my head. I usually go between this, like, healthy-normal-person level of self-esteem… and then five minutes later, I feel like my body is a prison. I don’t know, I’m tired–I feel like anything I say about this beyond that is just going to come out like gibberish.

I guess I just want to say, to anyone reading this, I don’t know. Nothing I say can fix it, but just know that even if you don’t feel like it, beauty standards are bullshit, you’re pretty fucking awesome no matter what, and imperfection is what makes us human. I guess. I mean, it’s pretty hypocritical coming from me, but still. You deserve to feel good inside your own skin.

If you need to reach out for help, no matter what you’re struggling with, find resources in your area here. Please know that you are not as alone in this, and you deserve to feel better.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

dizzy

one step closer. just… one step closer, through the nausea and confusion. this is your life. and you’re going to ruin it.

acid raindrops falling to the ground. close your eyes, and cover your mouth.

swallow down the vertigo. just keep walking up, up, up. just keep it up, up, up. and don’t you dare let it drop.

no matter how much i scream, i still can’t make the fire alarm turn off. lightheaded and dizzy, in the smoke pressing in around me. now am i grown up?

because i’ll never get to take this back. and there’s no time to mess up.

24 degrees

the humid air snuggles up close to me. and stays there. and my blood starts to come to a boil as i look into your eyes, because i hate you even more than i hate myself tonight. furious tears, dripping off my chin one. at. a. time.

and you know, they say the skies are rife with disease. say it’s never going back to normal. not completely. and some days, i can’t help but wonder. if this step could be the butterfly that causes the tsunami. if this is going to be the last time you get to see me…

they say i’m withering. like a parched august flower. and you know, maybe it’s time to empty out the vase. rather than just changing the water.

they say i am parched soil after a long, hot wildfire. crumbling under the slightest pressure. 

and the steam seeps into my lungs, air too thick to breathe. and little girl, is this too much for you?

because if this is enough to scare you… then you haven’t seen anything.