hold my hand. dress my wounds in white lies and false confidence. go ahead. butter me up. make me pancakes for breakfast; drizzle syrup over gentle clouds of whipped cream. kiss me on the forehead.

bind my stories together with borrowed time, and scraps of thread. walk for miles through the stormy weather, and say it’s love. but we both know your intent.

sit beside me on those long, cold nights by the fire. and i think i could just stay by your side forever…

because if i sunbathe in the archipelago of your eyes, i am cleansed of my regrets. so tie me up to the sailboat, and shove a gag in my mouth right where it’s supposed to be. let the sirens sing their song; let them come for me.

because in this pretty red dress, all i know is that you love me. tonight. and i am so desperate to forget…

Sometimes, I get tired of honesty.

Growing up, I always asked people not to shelter me–told them that I could handle it. And so they told it to me, just like it was. No matter how much it hurt. There was a certain pride I felt, in being able to survive subjecting myself to insults, or reading about things I was far too young to know about. In retrospect, I wish I could have just stayed blind for a few more years, blissfully ignorant.

But despite all that talk of honesty and transparency, I’m definitely not immune to using denial as a coping mechanism. With a brain like mine, sometimes I just have to ignore what’s going on around me, and put all the bad things in a little box, so I can keep functioning until they’re over, and then maybe I’ll be able to sit down and process it.

But of course, the only issue with that, is that eventually, all those icky bad emotions just build up into this giant nightmare of sadness and anger and guilt that just weighs down on me. Which is kind of where I’m at now, honestly. I’m so tired of having to patch it up with white-lies and dodge around awkward conversations, both with other people and myself–but I also don’t think I can handle the full extent of what a mess I am right now.

Lots of love,


face in the crowd

trigger warning: self-harm mention

i sit in the armchair for hours on end. alone in my room. my stitches slow, and elegant. you’re going to look so beautiful at the ball tonight. aren’t you?

but me? i’ll scratch bleeding marks down my arm. and i’ll call it a fashion statement. even though it isn’t. lean back on the chaise lounge, and let a strange old man talk to me for hours on end.

and he tells me to wake up before sunrise, the sleepdust sprinkled on your eyelids aching and bold. it’s time to get some work done, you know. and i will good sir, i promise, smiling as i go…

i’ll stop highlighting all the parts of my body i don’t like in the mirror. and never again, will i stare longingly at a pair of cheap scissors. because the dress will fit perfectly, and the shoes won’t hurt a bit…

as i spin around, and around, and around, my hair glossy and gorgeous. and they’re all watching now; yet another lovely face, birthed from the whispering crowd.

but that’s just in my head, of course. none of those things are really going to happen, now.

I’m so focused on fantasizing and glorifying what my life will be like someday that most of the time, I forget about the actual reality. My whole life plan is a thousand blurry black dots spinning around in my peripheral vision, so close and yet so far away. I know that I love writing and making things, and that it’s what I was meant to be doing, as much as anyone is meant to do anything. But that still leaves a lot of options open.

Most of the time, I just sit in my room, paralyzed by exhaustion or indecision or plain-old and anxiety and depression, telling myself that someday it’s all magically going to get better, and never actually putting in the effort to make that happen.

It has been a little better of late, though. I just got a job gardening, and having some kind of order and routine in my life–something I have to do, rain or shine, no matter how sad I’m feeling, has been weirdly helpful. It gets me out of the house, and it’s definitely very nice to be able to save up money and be able to think “yippee, another month of rent when I’m eighteen!” or “oh wow, looks like another week of food I’ve saved up for there, that’s so nifty!” (I know, I’m so exciting.) I’m trying to get out there, as much as one can safely do while in a global pandemic obviously. I’m trying to face my fears. I’m trying to figure out what the hell I want, and stop caring so much about what society thinks about it. I’m trying, and that’s gotta be something.

Lots of love,


vericose veins

you know… on late nights / when the wind blows through my bedroom window, sending shivers down my spine / i can feel the monster swimming through my veins sometimes / baring its teeth / and circling / through my bloodstream / because that’s what monsters do, don’t they? / because you’re getting older / every. single. day. / your skin starting to wrinkle and your hair turning grey / empty echoes of my voice slowly fading away / so i’ll go back to the place it all began / hoping / begging / for a tiny morsel of the past / but it’s not the same / they’re never coming back / and all along / you should have known that eventually it would come to this / on a fine winter’s night / as you run through the forest / knee deep in snow / and the wolves howl / as your hands turn black / and maybe… maybe this isn’t such a bad way to go.

loneliness is a messy bedroom

smooth the paints onto the palette with a butter knife. deep breath. let the blinding shades of pink slowly drown you. you’ve created a monster, haven’t you?

deep breath. pick up your paintbrush. and with trembling fingers, dip it in your strange amalgamation colours.

close your eyes. think of a picture. think of the bloodbaths in your mind; the jellybean oceans rising higher and higher… deep breath. press the brush to the canvas.

keep your lines straight and clean. gather up your mistakes on a sheet of scrap paper. ignore your texts as they come in.

and you don’t remember; when the tears started falling. but maybe it doesn’t matter. so just mix it all together, as you cry yourself an ocean of oversaturated colours…

rip apart the canvas, wheatgrass stalks of hesitation whispering through your traitorous hands. don’t listen.

look those carnivorous waves, with their drooling currents and gnashing tides. meet them right in the eye. take one last, deep breath….

lie down on the sand. and surrender yourself.

I’m introverted. I have social anxiety. And since we’re in the middle of a global pandemic, even though where I live restrictions are starting to loosen–it’s not like I’m going to school every day or something. For the most part, I’m just stuck in my room, which is kind of what it was like even before lockdown anyhow.

In theory, sure, I could go for bike rides or walks to places outside of my tiny suburban neighborhood. I could try new things–it’s not like there isn’t plenty of stuff I could safely do, in theory. For God’s sake, I could do anything other than spinning around on my little mental hamster wheel for days on end.

But, of course, I don’t do any of those things. Because honestly, it feels like… too much effort. Because I “don’t have the time”, or whatever other lies I try to tell myself.

But at the end of the day, the truth is… I’m scared. I always have been. And I’m tired. I’m so fucking tired. Because most days, all of my energy goes toward just barely surviving–cooking and cleaning and working, rinse and repeat. Not a lot of room left for hobbies, or having any kind of life, actually.

I’m trying to take it in baby steps, though. One scary thing at a time. I’m tired of my world being this myopic. Which is progress in its own way, I suppose.

Lots of love,


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.