mentos on an empty stomach

vaguely nauseous. you hand me a couple mentos for old time’s sake, and we hide behind the vending machine in awkward silence. and i think i did something wrong, but i don’t really know what exactly. so… i’m sorry.

ever since this year started, our little group hasn’t quite been the same as it used to be. and if you’re not there, maybe i’ll never know how to explain it exactly. the aching silence and fading sentences, only interrupted by the vague thrum of the emptiness.

i created this mess. why don’t i know how to fix it?

vaguely nauseous. can’t eat anything at school, even with my friends. and something’s wrong, isn’t it?

don’t think about it. trust me. it’s only going to get worse if you think about it. if you follow the spiral like you want to follow the spiral. all the way down to infinity.

if you look yourself in the eye, except all you can see in the mirror is the monster. because all i can see right now is the monster. staring back at me.


Oof, I know this poem is really teenagery. But it felt like something I needed to write. Really needed to write. So yeah.  I guess I can accept that. I’ve been experiencing a lot of crazy levels of anxiety of late, and this poem really embodies that–this vague, buzzing fear that’s always in the back of my mind these days.

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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.

hollow

maybe if i try hard enough, i can just… numb myself cold.

and i’ll try to breathe, but my lungs are made of stone.

and i’m just a body. so none of this matters, really.

and i can’t stop questioning. can’t stop thinking. and i would scream for help, but i don’t think anyone would hear me calling.

and i don’t know who i am exactly. but whatever it is, i can feel it slipping away. slowly.

and the screen light will swallow me.

and maybe if i tried hard enough, i could just step away. and it wouldn’t feel like this. like the panic was rising in my throat, and oh my god i’m not the one in control, and oh my god, oh my god, i think i’m letting go.

and oh my god, what’s happening to me? can someone please just explain me what’s happening to me? and tell me it’s going to be okay. hold me in your arms and tell me it’s just a bad day. tell me it’s gonna get better tomorrow so don’t worry about it sweetie–

because it’s been a long time since i’ve felt as alone as i do today.


This poem has been in the works for a long time, vaguely sitting there in the back of my Google Drive. Vaguely based off some stuff I’ve been feeling lately. I hope those who are reading this don’t relate to this poem, but if you do, just… know you’re not alone. I feel this way too, and even if I’ve never met you I can say that you deserve help. You deserve to get better. And even if no one else you know does right now, I and so many other people you haven’t met yet want you here and care about you. You’re not alone. You’re never alone. Even when it feels that way.

where did all the time go?

maybe if i could grasp it when say you’re grateful. maybe if i spent a little more time trying to believe in this miracle–

maybe if she hadn’t hurt me. maybe if he hadn’t hurt me. maybe if i’d had a period in my life that could genuinely be described as happy.

maybe if i had gotten help when i needed it. maybe if help hadn’t felt so much like punishment.

maybe if she hadn’t hurt them. maybe if he hadn’t hurt them. maybe if this didn’t run in my dna.

maybe if i loved myself as much as i love you, i wouldn’t be like this. but right now, i’m just trying to get through the day.

because i don’t know what i’m doing anymore than you do. and maybe on this page, i seem like i’ve got my shit together. but i’m just a person. i’m just a kid. okay?


This poem is really personal for me. This is a lot of what I’ve been turning over in my head of late–just how young I am. I’m a teenager, not an adult, and yet so often I expect myself to function like one. I’m still trying to figure that out, to be honest. But writing this piece helped a lot. Just to sort through this crazy knot of thoughts.

october 18th, 2019

trigger warning: self-harm, general heavy topics

i can’t stop doing it.

until there are battlefields all across my skin, as i reopen another little wound yet again, and somehow… don’t really feel anything about it. because it’s normal to take out your fears on your body, isn’t it?

every time i see myself in the mirror, i want to shatter the glass. so maybe you can understand why right now, i don’t want help. i just want you to look away, and pretend i don’t exist.

because i won’t be good enough for the monster in my head until i don’t exist. because i have to tear myself down, bit. by. bit. until there’s nothing left but a ruined statue, or a tragedy, or whatever it was you wanted.

 and it’s so close to normal, until it isn’t any longer. and i’m so close to fine, until… i don’t know how to stop myself anymore. 


I know I trigger warning’d this poem with self-harm, the best term I could think of, but that’s not really what this is about, I think. I don’t know, it feels more complex than that. So here’s the whole story. For a long time, I’ve struggled with picking at my skin–opening little wounds, again and again, as a way of dealing with anxiety, Scratching at myself. Demolishing my cuticles, tearing off little bits of skin without even realizing it. Compulsively fiddling with a wound when I get nervous. I don’t know what that is, I don’t have a diagnosis or any way to categorize it, but I do know that I struggle with it. It’s one of those things I don’t really know how to talk about–partially just because when you’ve been doing something so long, and especially since a young age… well, you learn to normalize it. You forget… that other people don’t live like this. So decided to write about it. Just a little bit. Even in the kind of quiet way I doubt most people reading this will pick up on.