wreckage

the other day, i found ripped-out pages from my notebook in a  box under my bed. they’ve been sitting there for ages, and when the paper crinkles beneath my fingertips and dust starts to bury me, i feel like i’m ten years old, half the world still unknown to me.

nostalgia’s gonna be the death of me. i treat old notebook pages just like they were people, left them rotting in desk drawers and tucked under pillows. sometimes i wish it wasn’t all framed on walls for show. sometimes i put on my old flannel shirts and feel like i’m fourteen years old and seeing red, cause the world wasn’t even halfway like what you promised it would be. but you didn’t care, you didn’t even try to help me. and i knew then like i know now, that i’ll never get those years back. i’ll never know what could have been, if only.

if i would have been stronger, wiser, a little more grown-up, and a little bit more ready as i stand by the shore and wait for waves to come.  i thought grief was supposed to feel like motion, like a valley i could walk through. but i’ve been sitting here all morning, my fingers all stuck together with glue. my t-shirts forever damp, and my room a mess. i should have said what i meant when i still had the chance. i should have held on tighter, i should have tried harder.

but i didn’t. i stood out in the rain and i tripped over my shoes, i fucked it all up. i didn’t listen to my heart, i pulled my hood up and blasted out my ears with my headphones and sat in the wreckage til morning. and i’m still aching down to my bones. still picking forget-me-nots and biting my lips ‘til they bleed.  cause i took your word as gospel and you were full of shit. sat on your lap, practised justifying the ends by the means, and lying through my teeth. 

but i don’t trust you anymore, and now you barely know me.

mirror

see her in the mirror, every now and then / or when i’m on my way to school, putting in my headphones and shutting out the world / but for a moment, i can see her brunette curls and her big sweaters / her soft, round cheeks / she sings to herself as she gloats over me / about the person i could have been, if i were braver, stronger, greater / made of iron and steel, and sheer force of will / her hair is messy, her t-shirt worn, and i don’t miss her a bit, i swear / but she doesn’t care / glaring from the car behind me at the light / she’s shouting make the fucking turn ’cause i’ve got places to be tonight / i see her at the bus stop from the corner of my eye, scrolling through her phone / she’s here and then she’s gone and then i am left alone / to fester and brood and find another hole in my favourite pair of shoes / but i’ll wear them til they’re rubber and thread / i will wake up and cry and do it all again / because i see her in the graveyard, but she’s not really dead / she’s running circles ‘round my heart / she’s wailing in my closet / writing stories in the pockets of my jeans / planting daffodil bulbs in the garden / drawing hearts on my cheeks

she never left. not really.


What is growing up if not being haunted by a thousand different versions of yourself, amirite?

papercut

i’m bleeding out, slowly

in papercuts and bruises, crumpled tissues on the floor, because

the kindest people i know are always the most broken

the most furious and sharp, they’re sour to the touch

i’m bleeding out slowly from muttered remarks and unfortunate conclusions

the weekdays slipping out like cards between my 

trembling fingertips, change the story 

change the narrative, that old ache inside my gut

keep it just the same as it ever fucking was

and dig the groove deeper into my skin

cause i’m so scared to mess this up, and i’m even more scared

to win

scared of what it’ll do to me when i’ve got nothing left

to thoughtlessly pursue

when there’s not an easy button to press

a pillowcase calling my name

it whispers more more more

so i’m flipping the pages and i’m biting my lips ‘ til they ache

staying up late trying to capture the planes of your face

drawing clear lines and divisions

splitting the world up like the pieces in a pie

i never get it right, no matter how hard i try

rip up the canvas, snap the frame

i’m erring just on the side

of perfection, so fucking terrified 

i’ll grow up and be just like you

i’ll be that person, i’ll let down little kids

i’ll make them beleive in fury and damnation

i’ll bite my tongue and think about you

about how hellfire touched your cheeks and something in you chose

to be good and kind

to try, try, try, even when blood drips off your lips

it’s the bravest thing a person can do

and when i lose faith in everyone

i still believe in you

bubble gum

i’m gonna do it / i’m gonna stretch myself to the limit / and blow bubbles in my gum / red-high tops and a leather jacket / i’m gonna be cool / and calm / ’cause i’m not dying inside / feathers sprouting from cold tissue / tickling my stomach / freezing my heart in place / and something just tells me that hope / was not supposed to feel this way / but wouldn’t it be fun / if i was your tragic hero / if i wore dark colours / bent and stretched myself to fit inside the role / and obsessed over the smallest details / until my little baby heart shattered like glass / wouldn’t it be so pretty / if we all got cut on the pieces / bleeding out on tile floor / cause that’s how this works, right? / i’m the damsel in distress, fell right off the tower / and broke a couple bones / but i’m sure my prince is gonna come if i just wait around a little longer / let resentment ferment in my ribcage a little stronger / so what if i eat when no one’s looking / what if i hoarded cheap makeup in the bathroom / and wore it when no one was home / and everything i said was dripping in irony / and ignorance / but it’s nostalgic, so the valley sings my name / and the birds help me get ready / for some handsome stranger to carry me off / to another fucking castle / where i will vow to him to always always always / stay / but i’m starting to think / maybe i’m getting fed up of being swept away

sob story (1)

when i was six, i cut my hair

in the bathroom mirror, with red safety scissors

right before the school bus arrived

because i couldn’t wash the soap from my hair

no matter how hard i tried

and i remember the chill in my bones when i realized

my body’s sovereign state was mine and mine alone

so i tucked the lock of hair behind my ear

and googled how to make it grow back as soon as i got home

i tried your snake oil and your wishful thinking

with my best open mind

ignored my mom, when she rolled her eyes

and you lied to me, google! you fucking lied!

so welcome to my sob story

in which i am tired of being the protagonist

because i never wanted to be famous

i just didn’t want to die alone

and i guess that wikihow told me

if i had pretty hair, or the perfect body

then maybe i’d finally feel at home

in the skin and bone you stole from me

but it doesn’t work

it never does

because the silver bullet you promised would fix me

was a plastic necklace from the dollar store

but if you call that empowerment

i’ll buy it every fucking time

and tell myself that i’m the problem

while i chip the paint off the beads

and watch them roll onto the floor

i will bang my head against the brick wall

and dig into the floor with a plastic spoon

rather than taking the door, which is… open

because the thing about this prison

is that most days, i don’t even want to leave anymore


Ok, I have this vague idea for a poetry book called Sob Stories–tell me you can’t see that. Idk, I’ve been thinking about trying to write a poetry chapbook a lot of late.