ya novel protagonist

today, i am a ya novel protagonist. except… i can’t do anything about this. and the world falls apart before me; armageddon unfolding live on tv, and maybe nothing is ever going to be okay again.

because the people i love could leave. and everything i’ve worked so hard to build up could fall apart in a second.

today, the walls collapse in on me. but maybe, if i squint, i can still imagine my life pretty. and yet no matter how hard i try, it still won’t mask the stench of this reality.

today, the laugh track plays as i try to wean myself off this obsession. but i can’t. i can’t do it. because the honest truth is… i don’t know who i am without it.

and i tried asking the stars for help. yesterday. but all they did was laugh down on me, their eyes twinkling with pride. and they told me… little girl, don’t lie to yourself. you’re nobody.

and, i mean… they’re not wrong, honestly.

My therapist says it’s bad self-talk, but no matter what she tells me… sometimes, I just can’t help but feel just a little bit broken. It’s panic-writing-on-a-Sunday-night-because-I-never-learned-healthy-work-habits-and-go-between-completely-ignoring-all-of-my-responsibilities-and-working-for-eight-hours-straight hours, so I really can’t remember how much detail I’ve previously gone into about this. But anyhow, essentially the deal is that I had a pretty unconventional childhood, even if you leave out my mental illness, which manifested at a very early age, it often feels like there are these… missing pieces, I guess. Things I should have learned or experienced–but never did. Memos the other kids seemed to all get, and I just… missed out on. And more than that, parts of my brain that just refuse to cooperate with me, no matter how hard I try and force them to work with me. Like I’m just barely limping through my life, because no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to truly experience it in any positive way. Does that make sense? I’m damaged goods, is what I’m trying to get at. The broken piece of pie, the sad, drooping lettuce, an old laptop that won’t turn on.

And, like, what are you supposed to do about that? How do you go on? That’s a question I’ve been grappling with for a really long time, and what I tried to base this poem on.

Anyhow, I am very tired, and chugged a very intense and mildly disgusting matcha latte to get this post done (which I am starting to regret) so hopefully you enjoyed, and now I’m going to try and sleep. Maybe I’ll proofread this tomorrow or something; hopefully it’s coherent.

Lots of love,


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,



nurse me back to health like i can’t do it myself. until everything is normal again.

rock me back and forth in your arms. call me lovebug and baby. tell me i’m beautiful just the way i am, or whatever instagram told you to say.

tell me i’m brave. and strong. and that i’ll get through this, and everything is going to be all right, because maybe you don’t know that, but i just want to pretend. even if only for a moment.

even though no amount of love you carve out from your heart, and press into my arms is gonna fix me. but it’s worth a shot, isn’t it?

i mean. you do some pretty dumb shit when you’re desperate. 

For as long as I can remember, it’s always been me looking out for me. My mom–the primary person who raised me, since my dad was gone at work throughout all of my early childhood for most of the day, sort of instilled the into me, both intentionally and not so much so. My mom has always been one of those people. And I think seeing her to do that, for better and for worse, combined with my relationships with my peers, teachers, and honestly every adult figure in my life… even as a toddler. There was. I had to look out for myself. And I think in some ways, that’s lead to my life’s greatest successes. But, well… sometimes, I don’t want to watch my back. I don’t want to take care of other people.

I just want someone to hold me in their arms, and tell me I’ve got you, and to just not have to have my guard up. Because honestly, it is so fucking exhausting.

Um, on another, slightly more lighthearted note, the first episode of my podcast just came out today! You can listen to that here.



i’ve seen the masterpieces, okay? i’ve seen the simple beauty words smashed across a page can create. and i know this poem is nothing compared to it. know that these words won’t change anything. so why am i working so hard for this?

because i’m just screaming into the void, right? letting my skin start to wrinkle as i melt into the cloudcover. leave behind the corpses of my words for some random stranger to uncover, fifty years later.

and i’ve seen the lucky ones, okay. and i’m not going to win the lottery. not tomorrow, not today.

and i’ll say it before. and i’ll say it again. and i’ll throw my last ounce of hope right. down. the. drain.

So… oh boy, I don’t now if I’ve written about this before, but I have the biggest issues with imposter syndrome–honestly, one of the main reasons why I write under a pseudonym., although I’m thinking about, like, maybe maybe maybe letting go of that soon. I feel like maybe I’m ready to take that next step–soon. I don’t know how soon, but it’s something that’s been on my mind of late.

Anyhow, imposter syndrome. Basically, I am a hot mess of oh-my-gosh-I’m-not-good-enough. It’s not specific to writing, I literally have thought this about my formal anxiety diagnosis from a psychiatrist seconded by two different therapists. I get imposter syndrome about literally every aspect of my personality, is my point–if you can call anxiety an aspect of my personality, which is really a whole other topic. But with writing, it’s really bad. Because no matter how hard I try, no matter how many hours of sweat, blood, and tears I pour into what I do… I still feel like a fraud. I still feel like I don’t deserve it. It’s really exhausting, to be honest.

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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