in the end

you know / when i was eleven / i was scared to leave the house.

you know, when i was seven, i hated myself.

when i was thirteen, i put on the kettle to make tea and doubled over, unable to breathe. and i cried, and i cried, and i cried, because it all just felt like too much back then…

when i was six, i sat out in the hallway until the counsellor was there to put me back together again. but that’s not how it works. and i never really felt safe with her, in the end…

and / when i was eight / i almost ran away / because i broke one of our dinner plates by accident / and i thought you’d never look at me the same…

and so, you see, now we lie here. vintage ceramics and broken silverware, rotting away in the basement. where maybe just maybe, they’ll leave us be.

and / then i’ll be happy / really, truly happy /the sunlight flitting across my arms / telling stories of a past / that didn’t even happen / but i don’t care.

when i was ten, i think i finally started to understand. that life isn’t fair.

let them be happy

imagine my brain… like a tourist trap. with cheap gift shops, and a couple rollercoaster rides; the tracks encased in layers of neon rust.

imagine my skull like a dust bowl. forged from years without rain, as you build me up on blind trust, just to tear me down again. and i swear to god i’m gonna make it. but what price will i pay?

because i have to eat. i have to sleep. and i can’t just spend the rest of my life, fueled by desperate wanderlust. crafting a house of bone, and calling it a place to stay.

because it doesn’t matter. that when i was little, people were shitty. or that maybe i spent a little too much time alone. or how if i screamed loud enough, i always got my way. because maybe i’m just a broken fucking girl, okay?

just… let them go on. let them be happy. let them bask in their own normalcy, and pretend the world isn’t ending for just one more day...

The side affect of writing deadine-to-deadline, and very much teaching myself how to work on that last-minute kind of structure is that every week, I tell myself… this is the last time I’ll sacrifice my sleep schedule, or not leave the house for four days trying to finish a project, or procrastinate on something until those measures are necessary.

But it never is. I get so caught up in myopic, week-to-week things, that I lose sight of the bigger picture. Forget that I can’t just put my mental health and general sanity on hold forever. That you can’t create in a vacuum.

And as much as I love writing, it gets tiring after a while. Not the actual creative part, but the spending hours on a screen alone, and the constant vague stress of making sure I’m on top of everything at all times. Self promotion and social media and all that stuff.

I guess in a lot of ways, it’s just human nature, to automatically want to ignore the problem until the problem becomes a crisis, isn’t it? God. I need to figure things out. I need to take better care of myself, so I don’t feel so damn exhausted all the time.

It’s just… hard for me to look at all these beautiful things I could make, and still be able to turn it down for something as smal and insignificant as spending an afternoon at the beach.

Lots of love,


girl; lost at sea

i don’t remember… i don’t remember who i am anymore. so scribble out my name, and everything else you desperately tried to explain on the worn-out chalkboard. as the summer heat melts into my brain, and the lavender fumes sweep me up, up, and away …

to land of the strong, and the free, and the brave. to an island of broken toys, where you have to stay.

to late nights, and long drives. and i try to get to sleep, but somehow, i just can’t close my eyes. so instead, i’ll play connect-the-dots with the traffic lights, searching desperately for polaris. because all i need is a map tonight.

and as the years go on, my skin wrinkles. and my hair starts to grey. my bones go brittle, and you have all but faded away.

i don’t remember where i’m going.

but i do know i’m gonna be okay.

I don’t know what’s really going on right now, honestly. I’m confused, and lost, and scared and alone, and I don’t really know what I’m doing, honestly.

These days, I’ve just been questioning everything. Whether I’m a good person. Who I want to be. What I want to do. What the right choices are in my life. It’s definitely not easy. And honestly, sometimes it just makes me want to cry, because it never used to feel like this.

But, I mean… I’m starting to think that might just be a part of being a teenager. Something that comes with the territory, I guess. And what other time in my life am I going to feel this free again–have the options to turn over like this? I don’t know. As hard as it is, I’m doing my best to find the silver lining in it.

Lots of love.


highway exit: home

it’s funny, isn’t it? how the loneliness never really goes away, no matter how happy i am. because in the end, as it stands on the precipice of something like a doorway, i will always be crying on the floor like a fucking little kid, begging it to stay.

how the road stretches out to infinity. and i switch lanes; close my eyes, and despise the sound of blood pounding through my veins. because if my life was a movie, i’d skip right past this part of it, okay?

but god. i can’t wait to see you again. for a minute of normalcy before the sky finally caves. and i know it’s dramatic, but no matter what happens, the gentle gravity of your shoulder will never push me away.

and so my eyes slip closed as i turn down the exit. because we have to be home. don’t we, now? we have to be okay….


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,