stardust

sweaters and night air and distant traffic, and maybe if i try hard enough i’ll find some way of romanticizing it.

eyes half closed. downing another cup of coffee, and pinching my forearm, and hiding in the 12a.m. darkness.

and what does it say about me? that even after all this time, i’m still trying to figure out what’s an illness and what’s just my personality?

i hope this is not my personality. but at the same time, the idea of being separate from it… it terrifies me. because i don’t know who that person is. because i don’t know where i could fly if i could let go of even a fraction of the weight of it.

and on nights like this, i would like to think i am made of stardust. i am wind in your hair and campfires by the ocean, or anything that makes me feel like i’m not hopeless.

i am not the end of the world. i am not panic, or fear, or the deadweight of loneliness.

i am the sunrise. staring back at me in the mirror. because for all the times you were blind to it, the beauty has been there. just waiting for you to notice.

always.


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borrowed time

it just feels like i’m standing at the edge of the world tonight. taking deep breaths through shallow lungs and trying to think clearly through a mind that refuses to function.

and somehow i’ve held on through all the highs and lows, but it doesn’t really matter, because in the end i’m still going to end up alone.

because it’s written in neon lights, and i can’t read the signs, and maybe if it’s this hard i shouldn’t even try. and then i’m shutting down. and then i’m on the floor, with my hands over my eyes, and it doesn’t really matter what’s happening, because right now nothing feels like real life.

and is this really real life? because i can’t make sense of it. can’t slip it into order, and pretend it’s all right.

and i always come back to this place in the end. to pushing you away accidentally, and overthinking everything, and just wanting to sleep but never sleeping, and wanting to leave but not saying anything, and here i am again. writing poetry, while i hide in the locker bay. pretending, that i’m the only one who feels this way.


For a little bit of explanation, the locker bay where I go to school is usually empty in the middle of the block, so whenever I have a panic attack in class I usually go there to calm down, since for some weird reason it feels like one of the most private places on the campus.

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november 17th 2019

maybe i’m broken. maybe life just made me this way. and maybe i would have been sick regardless.

maybe this is stupid. maybe there’s no point trying. maybe i should never have started this.

maybe i’m just sand in the wind. background noise to someone else’s performance. maybe it doesn’t matter. maybe in the end, i’m just gonna be forgotten.

maybe i’m an empty shell by the ocean. maybe someday, you’ll find me, and take me home. let me fall apart under loving eyes, in your garden.

i’ll draw pictures of myself until i forget what the real version is.


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“people with self-esteem are stupid”

trigger warning: self-harm, general heavy and potentially triggering content

i. self-destruction is the only worthwhile thing about me. so i’ll smile wide as i tear myself apart, and then take a selfie. because it’s cute, right? totally.

and my past rolls out behind me. and the future looms before me, and someone say something please tell me i’m not  making this up, because everywhere i look all i can see is the world ending–

ii. it’s been a while. and the self-harm marks are finally fading. which should be a good thing. but even the idea of not having physical validation of the fact that i am sick is terrifying. 

the idea of being better is terrifying. because i’ve never really seen myself without this anxiety, like the cat who came back constantly trailing behind me. 

iii. and it hurts. and it hurts. and it hurts. but it also leaves. and i know who i am.  i know who i want to be.

i am the first step forward. i am a shaking hand, extended toward yours. i am thunder, and rain, and lightning, and words like a snowstorm. 

and i am not anxiety. i was never anxiety. or any of the other shit you liked to tell me. i’m me. i always have been, and i always will be. and you can try. but i don’t think you’ll ever be able to take that away from me. 


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the night wears on

fingers on the glass. it’s raining, again. and i want to throw up for no apparent reason.

and maybe this is what the future means. i don’t know.

i remember being ten. i remember when all of this felt so far off in the distance.  a vague cartoon of the world i live in. and maybe that’s horrible. but i still miss it.

i remember reading the news. and how it’s almost always bad. how some days, it just feels like the world is coming to an end.

how static whispers through my head. and i close my eyes. and i let myself drown in it.


I live in Canada, and I wrote this poem the night of our election–October 21st. I was feeling really anxious about it, and I guess–this helped a bit.