december 5th, 2019

i just want to close my eyes sometimes. you know that, right? and… my psychiatrist says he thinks i have depression, and i don’t know if that’s true or not right now. but sometimes, i do wonder about it.

i just want to cry sometimes. because i am here. because i am not here. because i don’t want to be here.  because the people are too loud. and because my hands are shaking, and goddamn it, i don’t have time to be like this. i was supposed to be recovering.

but what does that even mean? because honestly, i am so good at being sick. but i’m not much for healing. for doing anything other than slapping dollar-store bandaids on wounds no one’s ever noticed, and biting my tongue. go on. i’m fine. i promise i’m ok. 

because life is tough. and because this isn’t what the movies make it out to be. it’s slow. and it’s hard. and sometimes, it’s just forcing myself to take one more step forward despite the screaming heaviness on my shoulders. and sometimes, i spend whole weeks running backwards. and sometimes, i get home from school and just fall apart on the kitchen floor, because i still can’t believe it. that for the first time in my life, if you asked, i could actually tell you what i’m living for.


Ok, so a couple notes about this poem.

  1. In regards to what I said about depression–right now, that’s extremely tentative, so please don’t take that too seriously. My psychiatrist thinks I potentially have dysthymia or persistent depressive disorder (essentially, low-level chronic depression) but honestly, right now, no one is sure. 
  2. When I talk about “closing my eyes” in this poem, I’m not referring to suicide–more just… giving up trying to get better, something that’s been on my mind a lot.

I know poetry isn’t always the clearest medium, so I just wanted to make sure I was communicating that. 😉

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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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i’m fine

golf ball in your throat. but swallow it down anyway, and take the pain the same way you take your morning medication, because whatever. you’re going to be fine in the end, and it’s not like your problems really matter.

so go ahead. tell them you’ll be fine. tell them there’s nothing they can do, but thanks for asking, all right?

even though you’re not all right.

because i don’t want help. i don’t want company. and i get it. you love me. but i don’t want you to save me from myself.

and i’m not fine. i know i’m not fine. i know we’re driving home, and i’m crying in the passenger’s side. but i don’t really want to talk about it. so can you do me a favour, and just pretend that i’m not even here? that everything is fine? 

because honestly, i just want to disappear tonight.


Oof, this is a super-cliche topic, but it’s still been something that’s been on my mind a lot. Normally, I’m actually really good at communicating what I’m going through. But of late, I’ve been having a lot of thoughts about keeping it to myself, and really slipping from my usual self. And to be honest, that is terrifying. So… I wrote a poem about it.

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what if i do something wrong

bolts of panic and underslept eyes. and i don’t really feel motivated to do anything, but i don’t have a choice about this tonight.

and my heart won’t stop pounding, and my thoughts won’t stop racing, and maybe i should have taken my as-and-when-needed medication.

and i can’t breathe. i can’t even think clearly. it’s been a long time since the anxiety has gotten this bad, honestly.

and i just want to feel happy when i’m supposed to feel happy. and scared when i’m supposed to feel scared. and angry when i’m supposed to feel angry. i want to know when i’m supposed to feel angry. i don’t know when i’m supposed to feel angry. i don’t know what’s going to happen to me.

because what if i do something wrong? what if i mess up for the whole world to see, like this is your moment. this is your chance to etch your name into a small footnote of history. so let’s watch as you fall. let’s watch, as you make an idiot out of yourself in front of everybody.

because they’re just using you. i’m honestly surprised you haven’t figured it out already.


I don’t really think this poem was written for a specific thing in my life–just my fears surrounding being supported in general. 

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