thicker than water, i suppose

blood really must be thicker than water, i suppose. if it can ooze down the stairs this way. slip into the cracks in the sidewalk, so i don’t notice when it follows me home.

or when slips into the bombshell eyes of the people i used to trust. the people i used to know. and now a thousand spiders find me, in broken promises. and frantic whispers. but when their shining eyes beg silently for help, i will always say no.

and i will ignore the stories. oh, the thousands upon thousands of stories, swimming through my lungs. devouring my shaking body whole.

and i will listen closely, when the butterflies say… oh, little girl, wouldn’t you like to fly? wouldn’t you like to rip up the rotting pages of history, and just rise above it all.

and so i will live vicariously, through telephone poles and long-passed airwaves. leaving behind nothing but crumpled yellow wings, and crimson bloodstains.

matchstick

the blood drips off my fingers. and i should just fucking go to sleep, but the charcoal hatred lingers…

and i can’t breathe, as a thousand razor-sharp teeth devour me. so let’s call it a superpower. call it anything, but the emptiness, congealing in my bones. but my burnt matchstick limbs; threadbare diary pages suddenly exposed.

my cheekbones splinter, the words spilling out of my papercut tongue faster and faster. i sit cross-legged in the garden, laughing maniacally as the flames drink up that silly. little. aster.

but i’ll write a happy ending for. just like i always do. paper maché gates and a glimmering castle. you’re running out of time, little girl….

at this rate, no one’s going to remember you.

polaroid

i am faded paper, and greyscale eyes. waking up with a headache, and not knowing why.

and i am begging you to pick up the phone. but you never did care. so you won’t. and you’ll leave me, stranded in a run-down alley, all on my own.

so i’ll bury it; beneath check-marks and to-do lists; a constant, thrumming debate. but despite my glimmering hope, none of those things ever really did take off the weight. just made me scared, and selfish. and desperate for escape.

but here i am; staring into the mirror, at a face i know all too well. and don’t you remember being ten, writing for hours on a shitty computer; laughing like alice as you fell?

or that night, in eighth grade, your first time using a microphone. but despite the hummingbird pulse of your heart… something about it felt like home.

and in that small moment. despite my sagging eyes and weary bones, as the midday light hits my broken skin, i feel… whole.


For the first time in a while, I really feel… I don’t know, like writing can be something I actually do for myself—and not just for, I don’t know, capitalism? A bunch of strangers on the internet? The voices in my head?

I just… I feel like something new. Something alive. A new leaf, I guess, pushing up from the ground. (Is that a really cheesy, overused metaphor? Probably. In my defense, I have a job gardening and I just got off, so my brain is a little bit fried—if I see one more invasive vine, I think I’m going to explode.)

Suddenly, I remember exactly why I fell in love with writing. And even if no one else is ever going to care about it, even if it won’t get me rich, it doesn’t matter. Because as cheesy as it sounds, I know that this is what I am meant to be doing. And I can’t help but feel like… like everything I had to go through to get here was worth it. That it happened for a reason. And whether or not that’s actually true, sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through the hard days. The days when everything feels heavy, and impossible, and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and give up.

For the first time in my life, I look in the mirror and like who I’m becoming. I like her twirly dresses, and her tousled brown hair. I like her round, soft cheeks, and her tan lines, and her freckles. I look in the mirror, and I see someone who is strong, and alive, and maybe just a little bit of a badass.

And I think that’s pretty fucking cool.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

april 15th, 2020

fingers tapping on the keyboard. heart of stone. and i don’t need your help. i’m doing just fucking fine on my own.

and aren’t you such a cliché?  such a cute little girl? and oh, just let it go. tear your heart out of your chest with your bare hands, and watch as it melts blood-red into the snow.

and the walls press in on me, and my butterfly pulse continues weakly, and suddenly i am a bomb about to explode.

and my eyes are missing puzzle pieces. and my lungs are broken glass. and i just need to let it go. just need to swallow it down with a spoonful of sugar, and let the medicine go down like it’s supposed to.

and riddle me this. and riddle me that. because i don’t know what i want when i’m near you.

because you tell me who i am, and suddenly i’m a ripped wool sweater, unravelling on the floor before you.

and i didn’t think i was this pathetic. but apparently… i don’t know shit.


I don’t really know where this piece came from–there’s no specific inspiration. I’ve had my fair share of at best questionable and at worst toxic relationships (not of the romantic kind, just, you know, relationships in general) though, and I think really how those made me feel–all those combined bad memories just sort of combined to form this poem, I don’t know. Being stuck inside the house has really left me a lot of time to ruminate on my memories–time I would rather not have, honestly, but I guess maybe something good will come out of it.

-dragonwritesthings

better than nothing

i don’t want to write anything. and i don’t want to move, and i don’t want to breathe, and please. just leave me in peace.

 i don’t want to write anything, so i’ll write you this. this depressing piece of shit. this empty list of words, clunking around my head.

because it’s better than nothing, right? because if i’m not gonna write anything anymore, then… here. have this.

 have the remains of my heart after a late-night panic attack because of course something went wrong. and of course i couldn’t stop thinking about it.

have the wind biting into my cheeks, and blowing through my hair. and the voice in my head, that just wants to get the fuck out of here.

and take it. take all of it.

i don’t think i’ll be needing it anymore.


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