depression in e minor

have you watched yourself sink?

have you felt the fog surround you

for years and years on end

watched your art wither and crumple

and blow away in the wind?

and have you painted the past in a rose-pink hue

everything soft, and kind

and beautiful

and god, i want her courage

i want her pride

in a bottle

i want her desperate state of mind

’cause i have ground my dreams up like coal

i have given up before i’ve tried

played depression in e minor

to c major

to d

and all it’s given me is calloused fingers

and sleepless nights

i mine my cheeks

for silver and gold

but there’s nothing left to find

and begged silently

for a kiss, or a hug

or even a brush of your hand

but most of all for you to tell me,

tell me i wasn’t born this way

tell me imagination is endless

tell me there’s the slightest chance of escape

tell me these hands around my throat are gonna get bored eventually

tell me it’s not too late

even though all i did today

was sit in the corner

and drift through a haze

and if the world doesn’t make sense, what does it matter anyway?

i’ve got my back to the wall

and my hands against the glass

i play depression from e minor

to c major

to d

i don’t cry, i don’t laugh

and i don’t feel much of anything

ode to armageddon

so i’m sitting in the corner, scrolling through my phone / and listening to this middle aged man at the hardware store / argue with his wife in whispered tones / about screwdrivers and carpet / and he’s calling her a bitch / but we all know they’ll stay together / steep in the silt of their misery / i don’t think it’s a good sign that i relate to them already / a little bit / ’cause their world is ending / a tylenol fever burrowing through tough skin / and i doubt they’ll notice when the lights cut out / but i will / as i sink into my pillow like surrender / on the nights when i can’t sleep / because maybe they were once in love / maybe they had hopes and dreams / but now they’re sunburnt and old / with a bitter tinge on their lips / so my dear armageddon / take me slowly / kiss my eyelids closed / and i will try not to scream out / as smoke fills my bedroom / and the skyscrapers crumble down / because i don’t think the world needs another tragedy a / life cut short or / product of circumstance / and god, i hope they’re happy / some day far, far away / i hope they split up / and find new love / and he starts a coffeeshop / she moves to the city / i hope all their dreams come true / i hope it’s not too late to change / and grow / and get our shit together / i hope, i hope, i hope

I’ve been thinking about the end of the world a lot of late. I think a lot of people are–maybe it’s yellow car syndrome, where you just see what you’re looking for, but lately it seems like so many people have been putting out songs about the end of the world, or making books and TV shows about the apocalypse. And again, this is almost certainly my spin on things, because perception is really subjective, but they don’t really feel like tragedies anymore. Like the end of the world is something so many of us are starting to accept as a grim possibility, and something we’ll just have to live with. This world with record-breaking heatwaves and oceans on fire and a million other tragedies and injustices. Like most of us are just at a loss for what to do, other than posting about it online and signing petitions. It’s comforting, to romanticize it–play it out in your mind. Honestly, sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through the day, even if it’s mostly a load of rubbish. (Yes I am most definitely projecting here, what of it.)

I just think it’s interesting, and I tried to capture that in this poem.

Lots of love,



it’s funny, how old habits always die hard. by which i mean, that i know logically the voice in my head is full of shit. but i still do exactly as it says, just to be safe about it.

let it rest its greasy hands on my shoulders. tell me what to say, and do. because it’s kept me safe so far. it loves me, really. just like you. it slips inside my throat, and pulls the strings, ever-so-quietly.

and half of what it says isn’t based in reality so i’m sorry, if i’ve got my head in the clouds, it’s just sometimes i think my mind is one big cobweb, and i am the fly. if i could disappear into the floorboards, i would do it in a heartbeat, and i still don’t understand why.

but sometimes, it feels like i’m walking through a dream. sometimes i collapse on my bed, and let its warmth sing me placid, and safe. wouldn’t that be better? if i just stayed in this room for the rest of my life, where everything is okay?

and i still don’t know why i let you strip away the layers of me, calloused armour built up over years, only to shatter like ceramic as you strike me to the core. i’m sorry, my dearest love, but i can’t do this anymore.

and yet, as i stare into your eyes, i still can’t cut the fucking cords.

cloud nine

so, i’m fine. i’m all right, really. back on my feet again, after so long spent struggling to get my ass in gear. i’m doing this, and it’s good, really. stitching up the holes i tore in my skin, with band-aids and polysporin.

with wishes in wells and gambler’s logic. it’ll be better next time, won’t it? if i just try a little bit harder to will the world perfect. and then, when i look into the night, i’ll think of rainbows and ice cream and limitless possibilities, not the crushing fear of failure, and the buckling knees below me. i’ll say positive affirmations into the mirror, i’ll wash my face twice a day.

but when the wifi goes out, i won’t miss it at all. so find me laughing off my problems over text message at 12am, with so much work ahead of me.

wrapped up in denial like a blanket, soft and warm and loving, in that way i’ve always craved. halfhearted workouts in flannel shirts and jeans, because there’s always more to do, always someone ten steps ahead, and if they did it, why can’t i do it too?

’cause i can work hard, i can give you whatever you need. except sometimes, when the slightest thing goes wrong, it takes all my self-control not to cry like a baby on the worn-out carpet. but i’ll keep it together for you, i promise.

i’ll do anything for the good life, like lukewarm bathwater in my palms. its clean-cut crystal catching the morning light. but maybe that’s not a good thing. maybe it’s all pointless, because we are cosmic and insignificant, and i think maybe i shouldn’t watch so much tv.

as i float mindless above cloud nine, slowly losing touch with reality.


i’m worried about her. but then, i’m worried about everyone these days. she’s been acting strange. laughing loud, and not saying much on long phone calls. i think she hates me. i think i did something wrong, read over old text messages, rearrange broken letters into siren song.

and it never makes sense, but when did anything, honestly? when did i see the world as it was, without my scratched-up glasses from seventh grade. so i say i’m sorry over and over again, because i can never gauge my damage until it’s too late and i’m sorry for that, too. sorry i say it for all the wrong reasons, and don’t know how to talk to people when it’s personal. when it actually means something this time.

i’m worried about her, because i’m worried about everybody. because i like to pretend i’m supergirl sometimes, that i can just snap my fingers, and make it all better; and soak up pain like a sponge. because maybe if i save them enough times, the little kid in my mind will stop throwing tantrums; drawing on the walls with crayons and searching for a way out with desperate abandon.

but there isn’t one, honey. and sometimes i worry that she’ll be stuck in there for the rest of eternity. sometimes i hate her. sometimes meeting her eyes makes me feel guilty. sometimes i think i’m perfect, and i’ve got this, i don’t need anything at all. only to break down two months later on the carpet. scream, and cry when no one’s home.

because you see, i’ve learned over the years how to put my feelings into little jars and boxes, stack them up on the mantle. learned to keep going, even when it hurts, until i can’t feel much of anything anymore. and at any given moment, my brain is in ten different places at once, and sometimes the eleventh is just buzzing static, but sometimes it holds catastrophe. and i’m terrified that if i look into pandora’s box for so much as a moment, i’ll never recover fully.

so maybe that makes me a coward. or maybe it just makes me human. maybe i’m going to hell, maybe the facts don’t care about my feelings. you decide, honestly. because i’m here, right now, for better or for worse. and the clock is ticking.