you wanna know a secret? (i don’t know what i’m doing)

you wanna know a secret? i don’t know what i’m supposed to write anymore

‘cause i don’t have answers

i don’t even have the questions

and i think i don’t work hard enough

i think i work too much

spinning through the days

in a dizzy blur of wicked tree-branches

and jagged words, cutting up my tongue

wrap it up in sherpa fleece lining

and tuck it under the bed, where it’ll never see the sun

you wanna know a secret? i am a hypocrite

i am lying through my teeth

hanging on by a thread from the telephone wire

as the flames grow higher

you wanna know a secret? i am bloody

and used-up, and this art i’ve made will never sell

until it sells too much

until they’re looking, they’re all looking

and my name doesn’t feel like my own

you wanna know a secret? i don’t know

if i’ve got it; that bird in my palms

’cause i’ve strangled it out

i’ve spent whole evenings worshipping the light on my phone

i failed, i failed, i failed

a million times over, i end up alone

’cause the people i love, they are leaving me behind

the moonlight streams in through my window, the stars are going blind

so in high-pitched piano notes

hold my heavy hand in yours

and walk me all the way home


It’s been a weird year/decade/week, and to be honest, I’ve been feeling really burned out. (Yes, I realize the irony in posting this online, but here we are.)

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.

bright

i. they told you

you shone bright

like the sun

bright

like the stars in the sky

you wished on every single night

they told you to drop out of school

and write like your life depends on it

study economics, or history

spend all your money and make it all back

change the world, save some lives

don’t throw away your chance

like those who walked before you

swallow your pride; nod along, and do the dance

they told you you shone bright

called you god almighty; called you

sick little thing, no place to call home

they watched you spin your wheels

and waste away in pity

stroked your greasy hair

and pushed a water-glass against your parched lips

ii. so i am god, let’s say

so i am going to save the world

i’m going to make my family proud

with another wikipedia page

and i’m going to be happy

because that’s what makes me happy, right?

and i’m a crying baby in an empty room

i’m singing look at me, look at me

my wretched, crawling vermin heart

my lazy brain

i burn with all my might, i shine like a death rattle

i look in the mirror

and i still crumple like paper, i’m still cold to the touch

when they say,

you’re the dream come true

but you still don’t know that everything i’ve ever made

has been for you

if i’m bright

if i’m warm like the sun

it’s only on the outside

a hollow cast of paper-mache

’cause inside, i’m black ice

and shivering moonlight

begging for someone to love me so


Most of the time, like every other person on the planet, I love getting compliments. But on hard days, sometimes they make me feel really sad about myself. It can be kind of depressing, to hear someone tell you the things they like about you, when you have no idea what they’re talking about. Like they’re complimenting someone who doesn’t even really exist. But I’m still so desperate for it, desperate to understand that girl they’re talking about, and try to be her as best as I can. Because she seems like she’s doing all right. Like she at least comes across as though she knows what she’s doing in life.

Sometimes I think that I make art because I love it. And I do. That remains static, always. But sometimes, it becomes less about the art, and more about proving something. About getting attention, any kind of attention, to fill the holes in my chest. It gets tangled up in all these other things too, and I don’t really know how to deal with it yet.

machine

when i wake up / the first thing i do is check my phone / and when i go to bed / i count out the seconds in my head / until i don’t have to be alone / yeah, i can’t think of anything new / cause it’s swimming through my brain / it’s drowning / just off the coast as the wind grows louder / and the sky shakes through to its core / when i wake up / i’m just as exhausted as i felt the night before / it just never ends / when it comes down to it / yeah it’s 24/7 and i’m sitting down at my desk and i’m trying to find a meaning / but it just keeps on spinning / and if we could just stop for a moment / put this whole thing on ice / maybe i could catch a breath / figure out how to apologize / cause the words are spewing out of me too fast to count / i hope they keep on coming / i hope i never buy a house / or have a family / hope i work and work and work / and i burn myself down so you won’t forget me / hope i’m never satisfied, or happy / hope i’m everything i dreamed and more / hope the walls turn to fog, and smoke clogs my throat like cotton candy / hope i’m better than everyone else / like, really / and when i wake up / the first thing i do is check my phone, scroll through pictures of things i will never be / check my notifications / and go back to sleep


So… I have basically been on social media nonstop for a good three years now–and it’s starting to wear on me. At first, it was super fun, and exciting and all. But these days, it’s starting to wear on me. So I’ve been taking a semi-break of late, where once a week or so I’ll do the bare essentials and go back into hibernation. I think it’s good for me, not to spend so much time thinking about what strangers on the internet are doing with their lives, because sometimes, just scrolling through Instagram for five minutes makes me feel like garbage. I really love the internet–but I don’t love certain unavoidable aspects of it, and I think I just need a little bit of a break.

Lots of love,

Lorna

you’re gonna go far, kid

i don’t think you’ll ever quite understand, until you feel it. the fire licking at my bones; i will not fail again, i will make myself be known.

and the audience feels like it’s miles away, as they clap, and whisper you’re gonna go far, kid–you’re gonna make it big, someday. and when you’re seven years old, living in a storm cloud, i guess that sounds pretty great.

and so my brain grabs onto shit like this, and doesn’t let go. i guess i run with it. take the path of least resistance. i stare my demons straight in the eye. so i work harder, and faster, and stronger, until no one can hurt me, not even you. and now it’s 12:07, and i wander through a graveyard alone, and try to puzzle it out in rhyming lines of poetry.

but i just can’t do it. because there are some things even hot glue and desperation can’t fix. but you said i could do it, you promised and you lied and and now it’s 12:25. and i guess i just can’t help but wonder, if i’d been different, if my brain had been better… would it all have still turned out like this? or would i be high above the clouds you showed me, when i was seven years old. with my castle, and my riches?

but it’s just conjecture. meaningless.


This is the most melodramatic piece ever, and I’m totally gonna be so embarrassed by this in a few years. But whatever, that is a problem for later.

I’ve spent my whole life seeking approval. I don’t think I’m particularly unusual in that. As a kid, I remember learning what I could get praise for, and what I couldn’t. I remember modelling my entire life at the time around figuring out how to get praise out of the adults in my life, mould myself into exactly what they wanted, almost instinctively. Maybe that’s a little weird, I’m not sure.

For me, the thing I got praised for was my achievements. Doing better than everyone else in my class, getting a good grade, you get the drill. I don’t think I’m particularly talented, or gifted or whatever drippy word you want to use–I’m just a very stubborn kid who was placed in an environment, where from a very young age excellence seemed like the only option.

But for most of my life, people have told me how much potential I have, about the career they think I should lead, or the courses I should take, or the university I should go to. Telling me I’m smarter, or I’m better, or whatever–which I know, sounds like a really dumb thing to have a problem with. But learning the only way you can get praise is by being better than other people all the time is, uh, not the best thing to internalize when you’re seven, let’s just say that. Because from that point on, your entire self-worth becomes dependent on constantly outdoing yourself and your peers every second of every day, and if you can’t do that, your entire identity is gone.

It’s just weird, I guess. Because no matter how much other people cheer for me, or praise me, I still feel hollow, and empty, and other people caring about me doesn’t make me feel any better. Which is hard. I don’t know, it’s just something that’s been on my mind a lot of late.

Lots of love,

Lorna