teen rebellion, or something like that

i don’t need you. you know that? because in fact, i don’t need anyone. because you were always going leave me in the end. i’m not an idiot.

and in case you couldn’t tell, i’m a big girl now. i don’t need anybody’s help.

because big girls hate their bodies, and watch their backs in alleys. big girls don’t trust anybody but themselves.

big girls hate the government. wear fancy clothes for no reason other than that everyone else is doing it.

big girls don’t tell you about their feelings. because you don’t fucking deserve it. stay up until three in the morning, writing fake words on an empty stomach.

big girls don’t speak up. big girls implode. because i’m so fucking confused, and i don’t fucking know. big girls say yes. good girls say no.

and some days, i feel… like i’m about to disappear beneath the weight of the future, pressing its bleeding hands into my shoulders. and now i’m starting to panic…

because i don’t want to know what i’ll find out there if i take off my rose-tinted glasses.

I don’t know when I started to really get into this, but I guess I don’t really like telling people how old I am. Even though I’m actually a December birthday, and therefore almost always the youngest kid in any room of people in my grade–like, I have never in my life shared a class or had friends in my grade who were younger than I am. But for some reason, people always seem to assume I’m 2-4 years older than I am, which I guess is in part is just because I’m such an overacheiver. Throughout my entire sixth grade year, my teacher literally never managed to pick up on that I wasn’t in grade seven. During various events I’ve done, people are always surprised about my age, and I get a lot of comments about how mature I am. And although I know those people are well-meaning, sometimes it can feel like I can’t be a kid and also be passionate and professional and do a really good job. So after a while, I guess I just kind of started to feel ashamed of the fact that I am a teenager, who sometimes does teenager things. I’m not entirely comfortable talking about this online, but I think this is a good step for me. (Even though a lot of my audience is older.) And I hope this poem is a little peek into a side of my personality I don’t really show online that often, and that it was somewhat relatable to your teenager experience, whether you’re still a teenager now, or you’re an adult looking back on those years. 🙂

Lots of love,


and i will pour plaster over my scars

trigger warning: self-harm

there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle that i gave myself today. and i will try my hardest when the darkness rises, not to tear myself apart. or at least… i’ll try not to hold a pair of scissors that way again. even though i probably will hold a pair of scissors that way again. i’ll try not to be so horrible to myself all the time. i’ll try not hate myself enough to tear the clouds off the sky. and it probably won’t work for a really long time, but i’m going to try. there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle, like the rung of a ladder, and i’m trying not to follow it down this path forever. i swear. it’s just… hard. because there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle, and i hate that it’s fading, because as long as it’s there i actually feel like a functional person, which is so fucked up, in ways i can’t even begin to explain. and honestly, all i know right now is how to hate myself for giving in. because it’s a toxic cycle, and once you really start listening to the monsters, you just sort of start to give in… and there’s a knife-shaped wound on my ankle, that still hasn’t faded, and honestly some days it takes everything i have in me not to flat-out just reopen it. but i haven’t done that. maybe i will, someday. but i didn’t do it today. and that has to count as progress.

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