so i’m a sad thirty year old now, apparently

the stars are out. and i should be asleep. like every single part of my body is telling me. and i can’t handle this, and yet somehow… i can’t stop doing it. because at least there’s one thing i’m good at, despite everything.  

and there’s something so addicting, about whole worlds sprouting out from my fingers. and maybe if my life in the real world is over, i can just… escape. forever. 

and i should be proud. but i don’t know how to be. and all accomplishment brings me these days is this weird moment of empty. and i’ve been working on this for so fucking long, that i’m starting to hate it, honestly. and doing what i love shouldn’t exhaust me.

but at this point i’m just… i’m too tired to care anymore. so whatever. just let it be. let the jewels of my mind drift down to the ocean floor. let the dust settle on the pages.

i don’t want to do this anymore.

I have this long running joke with my friends, about how lockdown is slowly turning me into a sad thirty year old, hence the title of this poem. Basically without having friends or whatever my life has been reduced pretty much work and only work, as I’ve probably mentioned before. Like, when I wake up, I don’t think “oh, I’m going to do this fun thing with my friends!”or whatever (because there is no fun thing I’m doing with my friends). I think “what do I have to do today?” And I do it, with more like these little quick intermissions for my life to happen–FaceTime calls and watching movies and reading books and stuff. I guess I’ve just been raised with this really toxic, horrible culture, that work is everything, work is your worth as a person, and you’re never going to be able to do the things you love, no matter how hard you work–because most of success is just having a rich family with connections mixed with random chance. And although I wish I didn’t believe that… I don’t know, I guess I still can’t help but wonder sometimes.

And these days, it just feels like work is… kind of consuming me, I guess. Ever so slowly. Like, I don’t know what my life is without it–and I don’t want to. Because I know I can do this, and do it pretty okay, considering my age. But I don’t feel the same way… about being a person. Honestly, I don’t have a clue how to do that. So instead, I just bury myself in deadlines and projects and responsibilities, and… I stay there. Because it’s easier like that.


trigger warning: blood mention. if this is something you don’t feel like you should be reading right now, feel free to skip, and just in case, find a crisis line in your area here.

blood dripping down my cheeks. slumped shoulders. angry music. too much caffeine.

and i’ve just gotta make it through one more fucking night of this. just got to grit my teeth, and push through the quicksand of my mind, and just… just tell me i did good, all right? even if i didn’t. tell me you’re proud of me. because god knows i need it.

and the shadows melt, and my limbs start to bend, and it’s funny, how scared of yourself you can get.  an echo chamber of self-hatred. greasy fingers, long showers, scabs scattered across my skin. and this is… real, right?

because, well, sometimes… it doesn’t feel like it.

and maybe it’ll pay off in the end. or maybe this was only ever pointless. and maybe i don’t even care anymore. because i just want to get this over with.

but tomorrow. tomorrow will be better, right? i mean… won’t it?

I don’t know what’s going on post this being published, but as I write this the government in my province just said it was okay, after May 16th, to see a tight group of friends again.  But the thing is, no matter how hard I try–I can’t get myself to truly be happy about it, I guess. I should be. I’ve been lying to myself that I wasn’t silently screaming to just hug someone, and laugh with them about dumb YouTube videos, and lay my head on their shoulder, but… yeah, I have. I totally have. And yet somehow the idea of having interaction back knowing it could be taken away by some random person in a suit who doesn’t even know I exist? It scares the shit of me. Because suddenly, I something to lose.

Essentially, to cope with the virus, I’ve been kind of in this… constantly denial/cynicism thing. I told myself this was just a fun vacation, an opportunity to develop coping skills and gain life experience, imagined all my friends were online. That I had never even hugged someone other than my family before, and I certainly did and do not miss it like this massive sinkhole in my chest.

And no matter which way you slice it, I just end up back at the same place I am now. Tired and angry and scared, and completely fucking useless. Ruining on caffeine and desperation, bouncing between emotional extremes in the blink of an eye pretending everything is all right. And yeah, it… it sucks.


bleeding colours / and i bite into my cheeks / and suddenly the whole world is spinning / and my ribcage caves in / all too quickly / and this is the thing about anxiety / if you give in / you can follow it straight down to infinity / neon lights and brain-dead eyes / and i struggle for words / and suddenly / i’m drowning in the dizzying rush of textures / and i can’t think through this / don’t know what you’re supposed to do about this / so just get it out as fast as you can / cheap and dirty / because that’s / all that matters anyway / shaking fingers and shattered ceramic / on the kitchen floor / as thunder roars in my mind / and is this what it feels like to die? / broken fuse / cast aside / but hey / at least / it looked good / on instagram / right?

I don’t know why, but a couple weeks ago I was really struggling with sensory overload. For some reason, it seems to have gone away, but as I wrote this it was becoming really, really hard to deal with. The littlest things, like my parents talking at the other end of my house, or the blender turning on would send me into panic. It felt like the walls were caving in around me or something. Everything became too much. And I didn’t know how to escape it, Still don’t. What do you do when even the slightest stimulus feels like it’s attacking you? When the walls felt like they were choking you?

Anyhow, yeah.  It’s just really hard, when you don’t even feel safe in your own body. I guess. I don’t know why it happened, or what triggered it. I don’t know if it’ll ever be coming back, but… it’s a thing. And it happened. And I guess, somehow, I got through it.



trigger warning: blood, discussion of compulsions/self-destructive behavior, body-image issues and general graphic imagery. if these are things you don’t feel like you should be seeing right now, feel free to skip this post, and if you need to access mental health support in your area, there are crisis lines linked in my bio.

you know / you want to / a demon buried beneath your skin / so just one more time / just one more second / and it’ll be perfect / you said it’ll be perfect / so why isn’t it? / why won’t it go away / no matter how much i feed it / and suddenly / there’s nothing left of me / but bags under my eyes / and a ragged skeleton / as the water pools in my lungs / splatter paint / connect the dots / and just cover it up with concealer / just wipe the tears off your cheeks / because you can’t do it without me / you’ll never be able to do it without me / because this will make it perfect / and maybe it’ll hurt at first / a little bit / but when it heals over, you’ll be born anew / in the blood dripping off your fingers / i promise you.

I’ve talked about this before a bit on this site, but never really enough as I feel like I should have. It’s easier to talk about things like anxiety and depression–things that are easier to sugarcoat and make bite-sized. Things I don’t feel dirty talking about, or even acknowledging. And things that aren’t so difficult for me to talk about, because I’ve done it so many times before. Whereas talking about my compulsions is… honestly, it’s triggering for me to even write about. Most of the time, I just want to ignore them, no matter how big of a problem they’re posing to me. It’s the only way I know how to deal with them. My therapist and I have only talked about them once, when I picked at myself so much I started bleeding in the middle of one of our sessions, and even then, I just said it was a nervous habit and brushed the topic off as fast as possible. But despite how hard this is to put out into the world, I guess I just feel like… I don’t know, I’m a big girl now or whatever, and compulsive skin picking has been a problem for me for seven, going on eight years now. It’s high time I get comfortable with it. However long it takes.

It’s not the same as self-harm. I know they probably seem pretty similar to the outside observer, but they’re just not the same thing. Self-harm is a tsunami, destructive and giant and temporary. This is constant–to keep going with the water metaphor, it’s like just being in the ocean the whole time. I don’t always pick at myself when things are even bad. Sometimes, I’m just bored. Or tired. Sometimes I just do it out of habit. And sometimes I end up spending hours in this weird trance, telling myself that if I just keep going, just for one more minute, everything will finally be perfect. And beautiful. (It never is.) (Sometimes, I have fantasies about ripping off all my skin, and letting it scab over and start anew again. Or sometimes, it’s more specific parts of my body. My stomach is a recurring one. Sometimes I just feel so sick and nauseous in my own skin, it’s… it’s the only way I can feel in control again. Sometimes, it’s just a distraction.)

I don’t know how to stop. It’s not just a bad habit. It’s something I have to do. Like I’m just a puppet on a string, somehow being compelled to do this thing, no matter what I think. That’s the best way I know how to explain it. I’ve never been able to stop for prolonged periods of time before. I wish I could say something more optimistic–but that’s the truth. I don’t know.

So I guess I’m just writing this because… for all of you out there–who are going through something similar, what I can tell you is that you are not the only ones. I can’t say it’s going to get better right away. But I do know that we will work this out. Someday.

Lots of love,



trigger warning: self harm. feel free to skip this post if this topic might be triggering for you, and if you need to talk to anyone, no matter what you’re going through, you can reach a crisis counselor in your area here.

broken soil / fallen leaves / and you know you want to give up / want to stay here forever / in this forest / tired bones / first jobs / late night study sessions / and you just want to fit in / just want to be perfect / and you will fit in / and you will be perfect / just trace the knife across your skin one more time / because you know you deserve it / because no one’s gonna save you from the rot spreading / throughout your mind / i think you know that /  think you know that this was never meant to be permanent / so when your bones melt into the ground / what will they remember you by? / and will they even notice / the inferno in your eyes? / and if you want it / you’ve got to mean it. lose yourself to it. let the creeping ivy spread up your skin, and take you as its own.

it’s a beautiful world, isn’t it?

Hey guys! The blog has been growing a lot of late, and I just wanted to say how happy that makes me. I’m still very much in the beginning stages of this long, difficult process, but I’m so glad I started this project, and all of this just means so much to me. So thank you,  to everyone, online and off, who’s gone out of their way to support me. And I can’t wait to see where this community goes in the future.

Lots of love,