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,


love letters

i’ll write you love letters from my bedroom. because i don’t know how to tell you this stuff anymore. not in person. not in that uncanny moment, when my eyes meet yours, and for one split second i am forced to confront the fact headfirst… that i’m only human.

and i’ll flinch when you touch me. because i don’t know what else to do. because your pounding vein hits mine, and i am reminded that i am nothing more than one messy, bleeding wound. and for all the times i probably should have said it: i’m sorry. that you’re right beside me, and yet somehow, i still miss you.

and i’ll type it up on a text message. i’ll stare at it for ages. wipe the tears off my cheeks, and mumble happy birthday like everything is fine. when it isn’t.

when i am a post-apocalyptic building, the beams just barely holding. when i don’t let myself breathe in the dollar store; as i am slowly swallowed whole by my own dark humor. but for all the times i probably should have said it: i’m sorry. and i love you.

and yeah. i know i’m not exactly great at this stuff. but… i promise, that is true.

It’s one of the most terrifying experiences for me. To be open. And I don’t think that that’s something I’m in alone in.

I’ve always had trouble with the little things. Holding my mom’s hand while crossing the street. Being touched when I wasn’t expecting it. You know what I mean.

I don’t know why that is. Because all bullying that happened to me as a kid was mostly emotional, I was rarely physically hurt by anybody–not enough that you’d think it’d justify a whole complex about ever letting myself be intimate with anybody. But, I guess something must have happened to cause it, because here we are, terrified of eye contact and cuddles.

Obviously, almost four months of quarantine really didn’t help with letting myself be intimate with family and friends. I spent so long working on letting go of my fear of letting down my guard, and now it’s like I’m starting right from square one. It’s hard not to be mad at myself for that–even though it’s not like a global pandemic is my fault, obviously.

It’s not that I’m scared of other people, I guess–for the most part, although being touched by strangers or acquaintances is another story; in that case I definitely am scared of people. But with those I love… I’m just scared of myself. Scared of hurting them. Scared of getting too close. Scared of losing myself. Scared of letting me down. Scared of how finite I am, how completely and utterly irrelevant. Scared this is all a lie, somehow, and I’m going to wake up someday, and remember how terrible and unlovable I am. And it’ll all be over.

I’m working on it, though. I am. Really, really fucking slowly, but… I am. I’ve overcome this before, and I can do it again. Yeah. I have to believe that that’s true.

Lots of love,



you know, it’s funny. the things you would do for love, when you’re just a little kid. how you’d lie right through your teeth, for one single second of undivided care and admiration.

it’s crazy. how your mind plays tricks on you. how success is relative, but i still have to be the best in every single room. how childhood was never really an option. because if you don’t work harder, no one will ever want you.

so don’t you get it? i’m perfect. for this one, glorious moment, as the sunlight serenades my skin, i am king midas. golden.

because this was never about me. and it was always about you. about the hole in my chest, where flowers grew among the broken shards of glass, but no light peeked through.

you always said i was a hungry kid. and i think i finally know why that’s true.

Part 5000 in my quarantine nostalgia poems but make it really depressing, because actually, it turns out being a little kid kinda sucks, if you’re me anyway.

Back during this time in my life, I remember feeling so alone. I was always the odd one out in every situation imaginable, and everyone must secretly hate me. But, I don’t know, if there’s anything that growing up has taught me, it’s that we’re never the only ones who feel the way we do, and that… I don’t know, this sounds cheesy, but… there’s community, where you least expect it. And I promise, I’m not just saying that.

I guess that’s why I started this blog, in the end. I don’t know if it’s helped anyone, but if it’s made even one person feel just a little bit less isolated in their feelings… then all of this is worth it, to me. Because it’s what I wish I had been able to find during my darkest times, and what I still wish there was more of out there in the world. So I hope that this site, if you actively follow it, has been able to do that for you–and I hope this post in some way or other spoke to you. 🙂

Lots of love,


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,


if it gets me out of here

armageddon; knocking at the door. and i don’t know what’s coming, and maybe i’m out of my mind. but maybe i’m the only one who can see it for what it is anymore.

and maybe this is pointless. but maybe i will drown in the sands of time as the sky collapses, faster and faster. rereading the books of my childhood, desperately searching for answers. because what if i’m not as good a person as i made out to be? what if… what if i deserve this, just as much as anybody?

but maybe… maybe it doesn’t matter.

because i’m gonna make it. you hear me? you’re gonna see me, on the billboards someday. and maybe i’ll have worked myself down to skin and bone; honed beneath a red-hot flame, but whatever.

i’ll do anything, if it gets me out of here.

Last night, I guess I had a whole mini life crisis thing? I thought I was done with this stuff, and I was in the clear and finally feeling, like actually okay, but nope, apparently not. Or, I don’t know, actually I think mostly it was just due to sleep deprivation and stuff.

Anyhow, there was just this moment, where I had all of these really scary intrusive thoughts, and I was also on Twitter, which I only have because it’s good for networking and stuff, and otherwise is basically just terrible, and kind of my anxiety personified as a social media platform. What can I say, I’m a Tumblr kinda gal true and true. (Oh my god, that was actually horrible, never let me say that again.) Anyhow. I guess it just felt like everything was happening too fast somehow, and I couldn’t breathe, and it was… I don’t know everything just felt really big, and scary. I think this is just such a Gen-Z experience to grow up with the knowledge that you’re probably not going to make it past 25 due to climate change and pollution and shit–and the mindset that although people will tell you it isn’t true, there’s really not much you can do about it. That’s kind of what I tried to write this poem about–that just, really sad, hopeless feeling that I just feel like so many kids in my generation have grown up living with.

I don’t know. Everything is just scary right now, I guess. And I wish the world in reality was as nice as people act like it is.

Lots of love,