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
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.
i close my eyes on the walk home, warm may breeze brushing its fingers through my hair, and gently closing my eyes. but that’s all right. because i’ve still got half a coffee to finish, and nothing left to do this afternoon. it tastes so sweet i want to cry.
wrapping me up in its arms like forgiveness, sea-salt and caramel melting on my lips. and even though it’s over now, it’s i’ll still trace the lines of scars on my skin; spend whole afternoons learning to copy them out by memory.
and what do you do, when every drop of nostalgia is poisoned with spindle-sharp cotton candy? when every embrace takes you back to grass-stained jeans all alone? ’cause i don’t have a fucking clue. but maybe that’s okay.
i’ll sit in my ignorance, like a cheap blow-up pool. i’ll cut my hair, i’ll make a friendship bracelet. i’ll take off my shoes, and wade in the water until i get cold.
i’ll hold your hand for just a moment, before it overwhelms me. i’m not used to being loved this way, rosewater and malt. i’m still learning to be soft, to let i love yous flow freely off my tongue.
and it tastes like sunscreen and sweat, as i press my lips to the back of my palm. but that’s okay. ’cause the blood will dry, and the scars will sink in. i think i’ll mount them in the portrait hall, and tell the world that i have slayed my dragon, for once and for all. i’ll take my victory forgranted for one more afternoon, and doesn’t that sound perfect?
So, this is very self-indulgent, but it’s finally warming up here, I wore shorts for the first time this year a few days ago, and I’m allowed to be ridiculously self-indulgent from time to time. Humour me.
In all seriousness, I’m constantly trying to give myself permission to write happy poems–not just the depressing ones. I don’t know, sometimes you just need to romanticize the little things in your life, and pretend you’re the protagonist in an animated movie, and I think there are far worse coping mechanisms in the world. So, I don’t know, go out there and like whatever the hell you want to! Have a good time! Be creative! I don’t know, it’s really late at night and I’m in a weirdly good mood, if I could shower the world in flower petals I absolutely would.
Lots of love,
when i was a kid, i loved swimming
going fasterfasterfaster, feeling the water part around me
like a god
a good daughter
a proper lady
so i learned frontstroke, and backcrawl
and even tried to pick up butterfly
but i couldn’t
my tissue paper body ripping at the seams
i still try it sometimes, out of habit
’cause you would have been so happy
when i was a kid, i realized
there was no warning sign i could not dismiss
false confidence and forced bravado
i was born for this
to cry on camera
’cause i can make misery look gorgeous
straighten my hair
and shatter my life like stained glass
and get drunk on my own tragedy
so i swum down to rock bottom
and stayed there ’til my lungs burned
i remember how i learned to worship the pain
and grab bricks from the bottom
drag them up with feeble kicks
of little feet
remember thinking to myself, on a bad day
that if i could just stay under the water
i’d be happy
with the tin-foil silence
that always felt like home
and i stopped swimming years ago
but sometimes, that feeling still slams into me
’cause i’m drowning
in the 40-hour workweek
the thrumming pressure
of it all
building up in my throat
i rinse off the chlorine
in an echoey changing room
and i don’t let my fears show
refresh my notifications
grab my backpack, and go home
this morning, i drank coffee, and watched the rain fall outside, crushed by the weight of my own ignorance. but i bet someday, i’ll miss it, as i pick and choose through a brand new set of rose-coloured lenses.
but right now, i’m just trying my best not to think about irreversible damage, or moral gray areas, or the rising tide. right now, i’m gonna try my best to be kind, and soft. melt my armour like candle wax, inch by inch. i’m good at that–always knew how to compartmentalize.
so why does the smell of smoke make me want to cry? why do i do this to myself? is there actually a meaning to life? and how come times goes by this quickly, each agonizing second dripping down the clock?
marked by heaps of dishes in the sink, deadlines and homework assignments and sunshine days frying my mind to a crisp, twisting in my skull and driving the point home. again, again, again. like an overplayed song on the radio. but i can’t live without it, can’t make it stop, so i guess i’ll just have to settle for putting my hands over my mouth.
the horizon burns my vision, cotton-ball clouds brushing against my forehead. it’s so fucking delicate. ready to be remade at the flip of a coin. tell me you think about that too, sometimes.