bonfire girl

i hope you gather my cinderblock bones. strike the match, and set them all alight.

and it’s fine. it’s all right. i was going to burn eventually; my kindling lips sending sparks up into night. but i hope that you blaze with me. i hope you wonder why.

i hope you know, how you’ve hurt me. how you’ve sucked me dry. i hope you know, that i still see you in the corner of my vision; sometimes.

i hope the dreary neighbourhood grinds your soul to dust. i hope you spend years relearning what it means to trust. i hope you know that you broke me.

and i hope you give a damn. hope you learn someday, that love is not a battering ram. i hope you’re angry. because i sure am.

and i hope you lie awake at night. as the autumn leaves slowly bury you alive. and maybe then, you’ll understand what it feels like to be paralyzed. i hope you miss your shot. i hope the basement floods this winter.

i hope you rot.

i make a home between the warning signs

the apple tree leaves sway in the breeze. and i want to cry, because it’s been a week since i’ve actually fucking let myself sleep. because i forgot what happy people are supposed to do.

so yeah. maybe i let them get under my skin. let them grovel, and pray. let them barter, and pursue. maybe i did it for the money, but… wouldn’t you?

maybe i let them pull the wool over my eyes; turned over a thousand leaves in my mind. wondering why none of them felt new.

maybe i find myself between the lines. chart it all out in rhythm, and rhyme. i make a home between the warning signs. because… i have to.

close my eyes, and crash into the hillside; a mess of battle wounds. and i beg the sun, in all its might, to make me anew.


I’m sure this poem could be better, but this is all the editing I have time for right now. It’s been a long day–it’s been a long month, honestly. With work, and school, and writing, and basic hygiene/cooking/cleaning, and maintaining a very minimalist social life, there just isn’t much time left over. Some days, I like that–because I thrive off of work. Without something to focus on, my mind just kind of short-circuits.

But at the same time, I get tired, after a while.

And at first, that’s all it is. Tired. It’s lethargy; lying around in bed for half an hour longer than I needed to. It’s sleeping through twelve alarms. It’s crying when I burn onions, or lose the keys or what have you. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, that mild state of depression is all it is ever amounts to. But more often than not, I find myself just feeling… empty. And hopeless. I cry when I read the news, and I think about death all the time. I try to keep up, with the neverending list of things to do, but I just can’t. And without something to focus on, I spiral further and further, until at some point, I panic; because I’ve just spent the past seven hours watching TV, Youtube, or generally frittering my time away, it’s 9pm, and I have a whole day’s worth of work to get through. Which undoubtedly leads into the frenetic typing, the constant working from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed; always biting off more than I can chew, and freaking out every time something goes the slightest bit wrong. In this state, I constantly feel guilty; take responsibility for things I didn’t even do. And eventually, I burn out; repeating the cycle all over again.

Every two days, to two weeks, I get maybe at least an hour an at most a day of buffer time. Time, when I’m just okay; when the chemicals in my brain aren’t making everything a struggle. And it’s nice. But it’s not enough.

Sometimes, I see what other people are up to. And, not gonna lie, I get jealous. Because how is it fair, that they can just do these amazing things, that I want so desperately, without this level of fallout as a result? If I didn’t have to spend so much of my life panicking because of a slightly awkward conversation, or crying because it feels like my life is hopeless, what would I be doing right now?

But it’s just hypothetical. Just a fantasy in my head. The reality is–at least for now–this is my life.

I have made a home between the warning signs. Not because I want to–but because right now, I don’t have any other options.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

grey

another day. just like the one before. and i want to feel something, okay? i want to find somewhere deep inside myself to actually give a shit. but i don’t, do i? not… when it comes down to it.

i’m just a flat grey. just eyes closed, teeth clenched, as i tell myself tomorrow will be better. but i don’t believe a single word i say.

and if i have a talent for anything, it’s repeating history. again, and again. so flip the page. because it’s my life to destroy, and what do i mean to you anyway?

am i your loving daughter? your dutiful friend? do i spend every sunday at my desk; all work and no play? do i buy expensive gifts, and spend tuesday at the ballet?

am i a withering autumn leaf? am i dark circles? am i the gap between your teeth?

you can say it, now. because i know what you want, from my body’s slow decay. so go on: take it. plant a kiss on my forehead. and be on your way.


I wrote this poem quite a while ago! Or, the first draft of it, anyway. It was an early-quarantine poem, penned around March. I scheduled it, looked over it again, and scrapped it in my drafts folder, because I didn’t really know how I wanted to polish it into something more enjoyable than the word-vomit it began as.

When I was young, although I never officially received the “gifted” classification, mostly just due to attending an underfunded, small, rural elementary school, where almost every kid in my class had some kind of trauma or mental health issue. Getting good grades, and being ahead of my peers was the least of the school system’s problems. But anyhow–despite this, I was widely considered throughout my early childhood, by my parents, peers and teachers as talented, brilliant, or otherwise superior to the other seven-year-olds. Essentially, as some flavour of “genius” or “gifted.”

I was destined for great things, everyone told me. And, I mean, I was seven years old, with cripplingly low self-esteem–of course I ate it up. The thing is, though, growing up believing that your entire identity is built around outpreforming others doesn’t work in the long run. You burn out–at some point, you just can’t keep up with that standard.

Years after coming to that conclusion, I struggle with that–still find old habits, creeping up on me when I least expect them. I’m learning, though–learning far more, ironically, than I ever did during that period of my life, when I was so fixated on being a genius.

I’m curious–were any of you classified as gifted kids? Did you know anyone who was? In general, what is/was your experience with the school system? I know mine’s been overall very negative, but obviously I have a very unique perspective on these things.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

the deadly poppy field of oz

i’ll run my hands through the knee-high grass. eyes half-closed. i don’t remember how i got here… but i’m here now, i suppose…

and why won’t this place let me go? because every time i try to run away, the garden wall will press in; cuddling me close. stuffing my baggy lungs to the brim; with newspaper flyers and hypnotic smoke.

and it will refuse to leave me alone, you know? because i will be young. and small. and broke.

and so, like dorothy, and oh so many who’ve come before me, i’ll surrender myself to the perfect august sun.

and you may take me. you may swallow me whole. and you may run.

you may blow me out like a candle. smother me, as the bedsheet catches fire. as your walls begin to crumble. i’ll be a summer seedpod; as i come undone.

honeysuckle

you are imperfect. you are the wind in the leaves, you are the broken branches, and the buckling trees.

you are dollar store hoodies. you are old navy jeggings, and clashing teeth. embarrassing diary entries from 2015.

you are sappy fanfiction, password protected on your broken hp. and maybe it was cliched. maybe it was messy. but god knows, it made you so happy.

made you frenetic and crazy. made you shaking hands, made you quivering leaves. dancing around your bedroom to songs about turning sixteen.

because deep down you have always been the art of wandering through shittily paved suburban streets. of picking honeysuckles off the vine, and searching for something sweet.

and… i think that’s beautiful. in a way. think that maybe, if all i could leave behind were those simple moments of childlike joy… well, maybe that would be okay.