i am faded paper, and greyscale eyes. waking up with a headache, and not knowing why.

and i am begging you to pick up the phone. but you never did care. so you won’t. and you’ll leave me, stranded in a run-down alley, all on my own.

so i’ll bury it; beneath check-marks and to-do lists; a constant, thrumming debate. but despite my glimmering hope, none of those things ever really did take off the weight. just made me scared, and selfish. and desperate for escape.

but here i am; staring into the mirror, at a face i know all too well. and don’t you remember being ten, writing for hours on a shitty computer; laughing like alice as you fell?

or that night, in eighth grade, your first time using a microphone. but despite the hummingbird pulse of your heart… something about it felt like home.

and in that small moment. despite my sagging eyes and weary bones, as the midday light hits my broken skin, i feel… whole.

For the first time in a while, I really feel… I don’t know, like writing can be something I actually do for myself—and not just for, I don’t know, capitalism? A bunch of strangers on the internet? The voices in my head?

I just… I feel like something new. Something alive. A new leaf, I guess, pushing up from the ground. (Is that a really cheesy, overused metaphor? Probably. In my defense, I have a job gardening and I just got off, so my brain is a little bit fried—if I see one more invasive vine, I think I’m going to explode.)

Suddenly, I remember exactly why I fell in love with writing. And even if no one else is ever going to care about it, even if it won’t get me rich, it doesn’t matter. Because as cheesy as it sounds, I know that this is what I am meant to be doing. And I can’t help but feel like… like everything I had to go through to get here was worth it. That it happened for a reason. And whether or not that’s actually true, sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through the hard days. The days when everything feels heavy, and impossible, and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and give up.

For the first time in my life, I look in the mirror and like who I’m becoming. I like her twirly dresses, and her tousled brown hair. I like her round, soft cheeks, and her tan lines, and her freckles. I look in the mirror, and I see someone who is strong, and alive, and maybe just a little bit of a badass.

And I think that’s pretty fucking cool.

Lots of love,



the surgery… didn’t go well.

but don’t worry. it’s okay. we’ll figure it out. find a way to patch your tired heart back together, and get you out of this hell...

and so i’ll trust you. because i have to. bite my lip, just like mommy taught me, because all you have to do is try and focus on the pain, on the little things you can control. and not the blinding light at the end of this tunnel, pulling me in for a kiss. again, again, again…

so just make sure you tell all the little ones to avert their gaze. you understand? because i don’t want anyone to have to see me this way.

even after you tie off the stitches. send me home in crutches. trying your best to ignore the little demon scuttling along beside me, that even you could not chase away.

but honestly, maybe it’s all right. because on lonely nights, it talks to me. and i let it stay.

I just get so tired of healing sometimes.

Honestly, it’s boring. And tedious. Nowhere near as sexy as the movies make it out to be. It is long nights spent crying alone about shit that happened years ago. It is struggling to remember all the things you learned in therapy in the moments when you need it the most. It is fucking up.

But, I mean, there are little good things. Amidst all the drudgery and pain. That feeling you get, when you remember your coping mechanisms, and you know that your therapist would be proud, and maybe, just maybe, you’re proud of yourself too. Or… going to bed early, and not waking up feeling exhausted–which is probably normal for most people, but barely ever happens for me, so it feels really good when it does, and I text all my friends to tell them about it. It is spending an afternoon sewing, or writing, or baking bread.

It’s boring, and hard, and painful, and slow, but it’s worth it. It is so fucking worth it.

Lots of love,


highway exit: home

it’s funny, isn’t it? how the loneliness never really goes away, no matter how happy i am. because in the end, as it stands on the precipice of something like a doorway, i will always be crying on the floor like a fucking little kid, begging it to stay.

how the road stretches out to infinity. and i switch lanes; close my eyes, and despise the sound of blood pounding through my veins. because if my life was a movie, i’d skip right past this part of it, okay?

but god. i can’t wait to see you again. for a minute of normalcy before the sky finally caves. and i know it’s dramatic, but no matter what happens, the gentle gravity of your shoulder will never push me away.

and so my eyes slip closed as i turn down the exit. because we have to be home. don’t we, now? we have to be okay….

when it comes down to it

tiny sparks. drifting into the night. and as the smoke clouds your lungs, you tell yourself that this is all right. if you just don’t think about it…

about the books going up in flames; precious word by word. let your hopes and dreams slip out of your hands, and onto the cold, hard dirt…

but i have to be dreaming. i have to be imagining this. and any moment now i’ll wake up, but this time…. it’ll be worth it.

beautiful. and perfect. as the birds chirp, and the sky begins to grow. and i am carried forward, by a thousand hands of people i don’t know. but as the heat grows stronger against my cracking cheeks… well, i think it’s pretty obvious how this ends.

but hey. maybe it’s not the worst way to go out. when it comes down to it.

a growing list of my debts

this… this was what you were meant to do. i think we all know it. because whatever this system is, it is growing like ivy up onto my skin. and all these beautiful things were supposed to make me happy… so why aren’t i happy? so why am i sinking into the quicksand, drowning in deadlines that i am soon to forget…

as the passage of time starts to bury me. and if anyone is listening, i need you to carry me, far away. from everything going on out there. so if you love me, let me go. if you love me, tether me up with some string and run as fast as you can on an open field, and watch as i begin to float. climbing higher, and higher, and higher,until i’m finally alone…

if you love me, tie my hands, and don’t look back. don’t listen, when i beg, and plead to be set free. take all my things away. and leave me, with an empty stomach. and a cold, glossy dinner plate…

and i’ll owe you. just like i always do. write it down on my calender. paralyzed by the thought of needing you.

Now I think about it, most of my life, I’ve been unable to shake the feeling of owing. Of so much as the ground beneath my feet needing to be paid off, somehow.

When I was little, I learned about money. My dad was an accountant, so I guess it was pretty natural to know all about taxes and stuff at an early age. He taught me about loans, and how I should almost never take one out, and instead make sure I was always the one giving out the loans to other people.

Of course, he never intended for that mindset to stick with me more ways than just financially. For me to take that theory and apply it to everything else in my life. I was a child, and honestly a really weird one at that–no one one could have predicted that kind of thing from the outside.

My mom bought me socks? My friend got me a birthday gift? I owed them. I owed them all. Somehow. I was in debt, and debt was bad, and therefore I had to do something for them in return to pay it off. Or… she wouldn’t love me anymore. My worth to other people was dependent on how much I could give, and honestly… sometimes it felt like I wasn’t going to be able to pay off my debt before it buried me alive. Now I think about it, that’s probably why I like to work alone.

Even now, with two jobs, I constantly feel like I’m drowning, just barely keeping my head above water. Like I have to churn out money faster and faster, take on as many hours as possible, so I can… God. I don’t even know. It’s dumb. But it’s also something I lie about late at night thinking about sometimes, so.

Realizing you’re worthy of the space you take up, without needing to justify it with your productivity… it’s hard. It’s scary, and confusing, and I don’t think I’ll be there for a really long time. But, I mean, hey, we’re all just trying our best. And eventually, we will get there. I guess.

Lots of love,