the mesmerized city whispers its name. and it all makes sense, suddenly.

aching shoulders, and the ground beneath my feet. breath in my lungs, wind in the trees…

so just let it go. and leave it be. and let the bridges crumble. surrender my body to the ever-churning lies of history.

force your eyes wide open at two in the morning. hold the crushed glass in your palms, and tiptoe through the debri.

i prick my finger, like a half-ass sleeping beauty. but… i’m old enough to know now that no one’s coming to save me.

If I had a dollar for every time I’d been told to stop worrying about the future and live in the present, I’d be rich enough to… I don’t know, buy so many plants that they would gradually consume my entire house and eat me alive in my sleep. Okay, yeah, that metaphor is not helping prove the point.

Aaaanyhow. My point is, I am the type of person who’s financial planned out into my thirties; who’s got a monthly budget and an earning goal per month to help me save up to afford to rent or buy an apartment when I’m older. I am the type of person who freaks out when plans change, and who goes insane not knowing what exactly I have to do in a day. I like to know how my future is going to look.

But I get so caught up in that sometimes… well, I know this sounds cliche, but I lose sight of what’s actually happening around me.

I’m just so terrified by the passage of time. By the knowledge that I’ll only get to do this once, and I could mess it up, but… I mean, you can’t mess it up if you can’t do anything at all. Right?

Lots of love,



the blood drips off my fingers. and i should just fucking go to sleep, but the charcoal hatred lingers…

and i can’t breathe, as a thousand razor-sharp teeth devour me. so let’s call it a superpower. call it anything, but the emptiness, congealing in my bones. but my burnt matchstick limbs; threadbare diary pages suddenly exposed.

my cheekbones splinter, the words spilling out of my papercut tongue faster and faster. i sit cross-legged in the garden, laughing maniacally as the flames drink up that silly. little. aster.

but i’ll write a happy ending for. just like i always do. paper maché gates and a glimmering castle. you’re running out of time, little girl….

at this rate, no one’s going to remember you.


it’s kinda hypnotic. the longer i spend following the spiral down, down, down as i search for the end. end, buried deep beneath these caverns of gold.

and so i’ll follow, follow, follow. i’ll do as i was told. cheap plastic, shattering beneath the slightest pressure. don’t i want to get old? sit atop my rocker, telling tales from a bygone world…

of a time, when the periwinkle sky granted me a single drop of mercy, and you told it to leave me the fucking hell alone. when endless hallways screamed my name, and i drowned in the maze of bone.

but right now, maybe i just want to stop. maybe all i want to do is prick my finger, on another goddamn spindle. fall asleep on my cardboard throne.

let the pulsing fear begin to dwindle. and hope that someday, i’ll be able to atone.

It’s a lot, sometimes. Everything happening on the news.

I want to disclaim this post with that–well, although to be honest it is exhausting to see, I am in no way the victim in any of the situations going on right now, or the most affected party. I don’t want this to come off entitled, or self-centred. But at the same time, I think discussing how all the news affects us, and taking care of our mental health as best as we can is very important. That’s my intent in writing this.

I’ve been trying to keep up to date with the news throughout the pandemic. I guess it was a habit I picked up around March, when quarantine started, and never really dropped. So after I wake up, the first thing I do is check my phone–usually log onto Tumblr, Instagram or Twitter, intending to post something, or check out what some of my mutuals are up to. (Or that’s the excuse I make to myself anyway.)

But inevitably, I end up finding out about some bad thing that happened while I was asleep. Then, I’ll usually google it, and read a basic news article informing me on the situation. Read another one. Have a complete breakdown, gradually feeling more and more disgusting and/or making myself increasingly late for work. But I just lie there, paralyzed on the floor. The background anxiety of that will often stick with me for the rest of the day

I come from a family of activists. My mom–who grew up during the Cold War–went to protests from a very young age, and often tells me about how formative that experience was to her. My great-grandparents were huge activists for nuclear disarmament, sticking to that cause literally until their deaths. Every summer, my mom and her sister would fly to Ireland to stay with them. I was actually named after my great-grandmother.

Anyway. One time, when my mom was staying with them, she had gotten all her clothes too dirty to wear. So she was sitting outside of the washing machine wrapped up in a towel, waiting for the laundry to finish. My great-grandfather came up to her, and asked her out of nowhere: “What are you going to do to save the world?”

All my mom wanted to was something clean to wear. She was ten years old.

As much as we’ve laughed at that story–I think it really illustrates the culture of obsessive responsibility my mom–and then I–have grown up in. (Many times, my parents have asked me the same question.)

I grew up with the mindset that the needs of the public far outweighed your own; that if you could learn more about something, it was your responsibility to find out all the horrific details, no matter how hard it might be to handle. And then, it was your responsibility to fix it at all costs.

But as I’ve grown older, I’ve started to realize… that kind of mindset isn’t sustainable. If I’m going to do the best I can to make the world a better place, I can’t consistently do that at the cost of my own wellbeing. That only leads to the place I’m in now–of constant paranoia and paralysis to do anything about an issue.

Anyhow–I’m still grappling with this, and trying to figure out how to set healthy boundaries without turning a blind eye, if that makes sense. If you’ve struggled with something similar and have any tips–or just want to share your experience, feel free to let me know. 🙂

Lots of love,


siren song

i am lost at sea. i am a shell of who i once was, just trying my best to collect the broken pieces and figure out who the hell i want to be.

in between bouts of self-destructive tendencies. the heat exhaustion writhing in my bones; as i hold still, and brace for the hypnotic thrum of the dial tone.

i’m not all knowing. i’m just some kid, at 1 in the morning shouting out into the void. but the currents of cheap stardust… well, they keep going.

so i am a shipwrecked sailor searching the parched desert sands, for splintered pieces of wood. or… i don’t know. someone who understands.

far, far away

she is musty air; a humid day. she is collapsed on the ground, about to crash out. watching herself from far, far away.

she is long, rambling poems, and photo prints. rotting hay. the ashen scent of self-hatred; just barely kept at bay.

an aching back, and tired eyes. and we’ll tell her to stop. we’ll beg her to sleep. but she won’t listen. because she may be young, and stupid. but she will not be weak.

even as the spots start to form in her vision. and as yet another scab forms on her cheek. and maybe she can’t breathe anymore, but… it’s fine. it doesn’t matter.

and at least she has a stack of dollar bills to love her, at the end of the week.