dear diary

dear diary, i don’t know what i’m doing. and some days, i work until i can barely breathe. and some days i just sort of sit on the couch and watch tv. and i tell myself it’s self-care, but i don’t even know what that word means to me.

dear diary, i haven’t talked to someone offline in weeks, and sometimes i forget to eat. or sleep. and sometimes i just zone out, for hours on end, because i’m so fucking tired. and it’s all the same, isn’t it? 

dear diary, i can’t tell the difference between the past and the present. and i think the people i love are going to leave, and i’m so scared i can’t sleep, and i refuse to be a child again. 

dear diary, don’t you just love how a situation can trigger a memory? how a memory is kind of like a doorway, and how pretty soon you’re sobbing on your bedroom floor, picking your mind apart into frail sheets of tissue paper. still not sure what the difference is, between what you felt and the reality.

and i’m writing this poem because i have to. because once you grow up, the world isn’t fucking going to wait for you. and i’m writing this poem this because i need to. and i’m doing this because goddamnit, i just wanted to impress you. and be the good little girl you always wanted me to be.

dear diary, i flinch every time someone talks to me. and how many fucking times do i have to say i’m sorry?

I really don’t know what to say about this piece–I think it speaks for itself, but just wanted to say I’m thinking about shooting a video to accompany the spoken word track for this poem, which I already have some plans for and am gonna record over the weekend–ack, I feel like that was worded really awkward but anyhow, be excited, I’m super proud of this poem and want to do Many Things with it!

the empty days

trigger warning: implied self-harm

and it’s on nights like these, when the empty feeling comes for me. when i cry my eyes out, and i don’t feel better. and i lock myself in the darkness of my closet, and i stay there.

when i want to scream, like the world is ending. scream, until my throat finally melts under the red-hot pressure. and my fingertips wither like dying flowers at the keyboard, and i can’t do this anymore.

and the walls press in around me. and my shaking hands want to kill me, and it’s not that i hate myself. it’s that i don’t think i can breathe if i keep this in any longer.

and i scream. and i cry. and i know i shouldn’t do it. shouldn’t take out this feeling on my skin. and i know it’s not productive, and i know i’m three months clean of this for a reason…

but i just can’t make myself care anymore.

Today has really sucked, honestly. I can’t remember the last time I felt this stressed out. I’m getting ready for my podcast to launch, and I just downloaded a new audio editor that should let me make some pretty epic spoken word tracks, and I started my French course at school and was emailing people almost nonstop all day—and I guess it was just too much, and I ended up having a whole breakdown a couple hours ago. I guess that’s the kind of feeling this poem is supposed to capture–this chaos and pain and overwhelm, all coming together way, way too fast. So yeah. I hope you all are doing well, throughout this whole mess of a month–and I hope that things get better soon.


skin and bone

i am tired, and sad, and cold. and the headache pierces right into my bones, and i know it’s all relative, but when did i start to feel this alone?

sipping cold coffee, stuck at home. and i don’t want to live like this, but… i don’t really have a choice about it.

and i just want love. just want all your attention. because i want you to hold me. want you to rock me to sleep in your soft, lovely arms and wipe the tears off my eyes. let my heart dribble off your shoulders, and onto the floor. i don’t want to carry the weight of this all on my own anymore.

and my fingers ache from typing. and my eyes feel like they’re fucking dying, and i just want you to go. whatever. leave me alone.

and watch, as i work myself, right down to skin and bone. 

Before I start to write about this, I just want to preface it with the fact that, well,  I do this because I love it, and because it’s what I’m passionate about, and it makes me happy, even though it is definitely hard sometimes. However,  there is also… another element of it. A darker side of this, I guess. Because sometimes it’s not about making myself happy and pursuing my creative goals or whatever. It’s just about proving–to myself, to my parents, to the world, I guess–that I’m not weak. I’m not a little kid (whatever that means). I’m a big girl now, and I’m just as smart as the adults. And no one can push me around anymore. A kind of weird defence mechanism, I guess.

i don’t know what to say

trigger warning: self-harm and suicide mention. need to talk to anyone? resources are here.

it’s been ages since i’ve really written poetry.

and i don’t know. things have been crazy. and every day, my life gets harder. and every day, my stack of things to do grows taller. and my head starts to ache. and if i stare in the mirror for long enough, i’ll always find another aspect of myself to hate.

so i guess it’s easier. to just spend hours lying in bed, sweaty clothes and tired eyes, and burying myself in internet culture. because i don’t know what to write anymore. 

and did i tell you about the other day? about how i cried for most of the night. and i did two twenty-question math tests, back to back, and i started writing a suicide note, and i thought i might pass out, and i studied for six hours straight, and everything i tried to write came out underlined in red.

and did i tell you about how i missed therapy? because i’m sick, and i’m tired, and you know when you start forgetting appointments scheduled weeks in advance that you just don’t care anymore.

did i tell you that where there used to be all these feelings in my chest, now there’s mostly just… dust, and sand, and emptiness? tell you about how much i miss the idea of being carefree and innocent, even though i don’t think in my entire life i’ve ever felt like that? tell you about watching disney movies and needing every second of it?

did i tell you that i cut myself? that i don’t think i’ll ever really stop doing it?

or did i mention that my drafts folder is empty, and my fingers are bloody, and… i don’t know the words for this anymore.

I think this is a definitely very experimental style, but I’m proud of it anyhow I guess. I think I wrote this a couple weeks ago, in the depths of a mental breakdown, but at that kind of point where you know you need to write something, and in that moment… that was this.



just let the deep breaths wash away all of it.

because maybe it’s healthy. maybe it isn’t. but i’ve bottled up the memories in old jam jars and packaged them up in battered amazon boxes, stuffed them to the back of the closet, and i just want this to be over. i’m done with it. 

so we’ll toss my mind out to sea, okay? walk miles and miles just to find the ocean, balancing the past on our shoulders. and why can’t you get out of my head? i thought i was fine. i thought this was over.

and we’ll sing songs around the campfire, and watch as the past starts to burn into the sand. because i don’t want anything to do with it anymore.

scatter the ashes. throw them in the garbage, stomp them down to nothing on the kitchen floor. and never bring it up again.

because i told you. i don’t want to think about this anymore.

I guess repressing stuff is a lot easier than dealing with it. And, well, of late, I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been struggling with that of late, more than a little bit. Being distanced from the world, like most people are right now is giving me a lot more time to dwell in the past and worry about the things that happened to me then repeating themselves. It’s been a little better this week than it was when I wrote this, but, um… yeah. Anyhow, how are you guys doing? Has anyone else been feeling like this of late? I’d love to know your experiences in the comments, and I’m really glad to have this blog as an outlet during these times ❤