a quiet death

turn off the lights with shaking fingertips

and go to bed, you don’t have a fucking clue girl

close your eyes, and search your soul

’cause you’ve got work to do

claw out your heart and set it down in the kitchen sink

that won’t be good for the septic field

dissect the little veins, close your eyes

and sleep it off, cast your mind to that funny place

where you’re five years old

and everything is okay, ’cause it sure as hell wasn’t then

rearrange the memories in your brain

until it’s all blur

turn on your phone, and put it all out there

in exciting headlines

and advice columns

’cause i know, i know

how to make it pretty

make it sweet

crush the ligaments between rubber tires

and don’t think about the things you have to do to survive

even when the bass feels like it’s going

to crack my skull right open

lay down the flowers along the rows of graves

but it’ll take you a lifetime to get to know the dead

but it’s fine

it’s all just in the name of progress

isn’t it?

and in the end, we’re all gonna be grateful

for a hundred thousand quiet deaths

cupped in my palms, running through my fingers

like bathwater

sticky-sweet, and so alive

I’ve been watching a lot of dystopian TV shows, with some pretty disturbing imagery–which is not a good idea for me (at least in big doses, so I’ve been trying to limit myself) because my brain is not too great with dealing with violence and gore. I would pay so much money for a streaming service while any blood or gore is blurred out, or it gives you a warning before a jumpscare, because I cannot handle it. I can read it, I can listen to it, but if I have to see it I will not think about anything else for weeks. It’s like, the media equivalent of eating a ton of candy, even though you know you’re gonna feel gross later, and you kinda feel gross now, but right now you just can’t stop. Anyway, it’s I think this is where that piece came from, but I’m honestly not 100% sure.

how to wash it all away (in three easy steps!)

step 1: facial cleanser

take a deep breath, and meet your filthy eyes in the mirror. you know what you’ve done. you know that you will grow beyond it, you will realize your falsehoods and blind spots. and the people around you still hold it in their chests. every stumble, every anxious giggle, and that fucking typo in your email, carved into your chest.

step 2: toner

drift away from yourself, slowly. play this forward so far out into the future, you can’t recognize your face. yeah. that’s good. let it fester, and wallow, let your eyes go dark and strange. buckle under the weight of something no one is expecting but you, and trace the paths of your veins all the way out into the future.

step 3: moisturizer

meet your eyes in the mirror. ocean blue. feel that water, as it pounds against your shoulders, turning a blind eye to your years of debt. and you are forgiven. again, again, again. turn off the water, feel your hands on the cheap bathroom counter; it’s blue, or so it seems. blue like the sky, blue like the sea, blue like my eyes, like all the things you’ve never said to me. blue like tossing, and turning, one eye open. even when i’m asleep.

i stay up until midnight watching reality tv

i. the people are laughing. they’ve got enough money to laugh all day; to buy swimming pools and vacations, and learn everything there is to know about the world until the sun comes up again. their clothes are bright, and their hair is so pretty, and they’re laughing at their game. they’re glossy-eyed and lovely, and i hate them all the same. i hate their lives, i hate their stupid problems. too much fame, and too much love. i hate your face, when you tell me that you’re lucky, ’cause what if i’m not? what if i don’t want to be? what if i’m held together by scotch tape and hatred? what if i’m sitting in my room on a friday night, alone? the people are laughing, and drinking their tea. they’re having a grand old time in their palace, and it’s never going to be me.

ii. the people are talking about some new tv show. it’s good, really. it’s beautiful, it’s shining bright. and i think if i met them in real life, we’d be the best of friends. they’d say you’re special and you’re perfect. and i’d stop being eaten alive by your pretty teeth, and your gleaming eyes. and i bet you got those clothes first-hand. i bet they’re really nice. i bet you never cry, never stay up late, paralyzed by doubt, and fear. i bet your house is always neat, and tidy, and you love the person in your bed more than anything. i bet you work hard, and give it your all, and in your world, that’s all it takes. and i’m glad. at least one of us got their cake.

I don’t like being a jealous person, and it’s definitely something I’m working on, but sometimes on my worst days, I can definitely go there, and just feel so miserable and resentful to people wildly more successful than me–because let’s face it, that’s most of the online content I see. It can get into a pretty destructive spiral, so I decided to write about it, and I liked how this piece turned out.


when it rains it pours

i’m your thunderstorm; your fucking tornado

skin melting like candlewax off shaky bones

screaming, and crying, and folding into the pillow

until there’s nothing left to complain about

but dust and feathers

when it rains, it’s ugly

it’s muddy feet and bleeding teeth

as you peel off rotten boards of wood

from your chesapeake home, ’cause it’s bullshit

the mythology we’ve built ourselves up on

when the wind snaps tree-branches

and sends leaves falling to the ground, and the power lines

snap like rubber bands, it’s all about me

about the static electricity, sparking at my fingertips

and poems that fall flat, dripping off my knees

like melted ice

and maybe you’ll grow, and change, and tell me you’re sorry

some day over the rainbow

but for now, i think i’ll cut out your false history

and set it aflame

’cause when it rains, i’m made of melting tissue-paper

and it’s all coming out of me, ugly and blubbering

i’ll sweep your houses out to sea

i’ll flood a lake and drown a city

pretend it doesn’t bother me

spitting out bitter apple-seeds on the lawn


let’s paint a picture: it’s 12am, and i am in my head

tossing and turning

heart crashing into my ribcage like waves against the shore

and suddenly, all the empty spaces on my walls

have never ached more clearly

and what if they see me? what if they don’t?

what if i fuck up? what if i’m alone?

what if i run away to paris? what if i say no?

’cause maybe in another language, my heart would sing clear this time

clear, like the morning

clear like progress, one step at a time

clear like a green lawn, and the good life we all chased after

even when paradise started to rot in our teeth

when the walls began to sing

and the staircase buckled under my weight

and the songbirds looked more like vultures

closing in around me

and maybe i’m dreaming; i don’t even know

’cause i don’t trust my mind; not in this shit-show

you know that picture of you and me, from way back when?

and we’re sitting on the rock, looking out at the ocean

i thought you were the whole world to me

i thought you were gravity, you were freckles and sharp teeth

like the kindest daydream i had ever met