liminal space

i ride the bus home from school
take the same route everyday
and find my seat in the back, pushing aside
bubblegum wrappers and love letters

someday i’ll leave this place
its cotton-candy promise, just a little rotten
to the touch
someday i’ll get tired of leaving breadcrumbs behind
someday there won’t be any romance left

in making a name for myself
or whatever else they sold me
so i’ll leave, and i’ll scratch my initials into the metal railing
beside all those that came and left before

when i come back someday,
2010s nostalgia
playing like a broken record
this bench will be covered in graffiti, the old tally-marks scrawled over

other people are gonna sit there
at our spot in the corner, behind the looming bookshelves
they’re gonna hold hands and watch the crowd
beneath the tree
throw rocks over the edge, and watch them fall

other people will take my spot by the window
watch the summers go by in a dizzy blur

find the fake roses and hydrangeas
stuck to the plants in late-spring
realize the ivy is just plastic and glue
i hope the heartbreak goes
easy on their open wounds
i hope their angels try to soften the blow
as they fall off their pedestals and bleed in the snow

other people
will walk these roads, like we did
when we were fifteen
sit on the stage, eating candy in the rain
and when we got bored, we’d share an umbrella and walk back home

other people, will settle in my place

but i’m never going to be that girl again


i am walking through a skeleton of poetry

that once meant the world to me

but the words are smushed on salt-stained cheeks

the words whisper through my heart

oh my god, i can’t breathe

i am walking through a skeleton

i am watching you leave

for new heights and new things

half-finished promises

you might not ever keep

i am tripping over femurs and tibia too

i don’t know what creatures used to walk this place

but i hope they left too

i hope their dreams cannot be shared within the space of my hands

i hope their days are full

i hope they get that promotion

i hope they keep the door closed

i hope they let me down gently, and i won’t let them know

that i’m sobbing on the floor

such a mess i can’t drive home

i am walking through the ashes of a world i used to know

the motivational posters and the self-help books

all the things i used to believe in, right down to my soul

it’s dull, and barren on my tongue

it’s all so fucking cold

but i’ll be fine, i’ll be fine

i’ll figure it out between 9-3:30, wednesdays

i’ll pay the long distance

holding my phone like a vice

i’ll play the music loud and take up journalling

i will talk while you still listen

i will try my best not to waste your time

when i kiss you goodnight

i’m walking through a skeleton of things that could have been

feel them well up in my chest and pool on my tongue

taste the salt breeze

i want to fold up my opinions like laundry on the bed

i want to sleep for the rest of eternity

A bit of a vent poem. Growing up is rough, sometimes. This isn’t about any one specific thing, so much as the general chaos that has been my life. I’m not really great at people to be honest, and I’m even worse at goodbyes.

peace (a personal narrative)

When I was young, I used to love to listen to the radio, and imagine what it would be like for someone to be so interested in me and my work, that they’d ask me all these carefully selected questions, and listen with rapture, and thank me profusely for my time afterwards. It was always my favourite thing to do on long car rides home.

I come from a family of people who almost made it; a long line of close brushes and has-beens. Sometimes, I imagine all my ancestors’ dreams, hovering over my shoulders, and ducking under my skin.

When I was young, I thought that someday, the whole world was gonna scream my name. I thought I’d do whatever I’d took–I’d push all my friends away, I’d leave my family in the dust, I’d accept any deal I was given. Any chance to make my mark. To make the world a better place, I hope. Because those two things aren’t always the same.

It’s hard, not to romanticize the tragedy of it all. The tortured celebrity, who has everything in the world, who’s loved by so many people, and still hates themselves. Drowning in all that glory, and attention, and money. Honestly, it’s hard not to romanticize having, period. Not having to worry about rent and food and electricity. Knowing whatever you want, you have enough money to pay for it. And whenever someone needs help, you’ll be able to help them without a second thought. It’s a good problem to have.

I spent my entire childhood holding the weight of generations worth of dreams on my shoulders. I have grown up hungry, for something, anything more than an average life. But where that used to inspire me… now it just feels heavy, and impossible. Like I’ve already failed before I’ve even started.

I want to be happy. I want to be reasonable. I want to do everything right, I want to show the world how good I can play the game. How strong I am, how wrong they were. I want, and I want, and I want, a thousand different things, most of which I can’t afford.

I want to make art. It’s the thing that makes the world spin around, that snaps me out of my darkest moments. I love it, more than anything else. But I don’t want to be a tortured artist. I don’t want to suffer for a dream. I want to be known and adored, to have the entire world sing my praises–but the idea of people criticizing me makes me feel like I’m collapsing inward like a dying star. I feel so young–soft, and small, and vulnerable, like a baby deer at the edge of the highway just begging not to get hit.

And… shit. I think I might have spent the past three years writing about how all I ever wanted was to be at peace. Not… to give up everything, for this massive career, and more money than I know what to do with. Not to change the entire world, not to be unforgettable, at the cost of my own sanity.

Just to be happy. To have a good job, a good life, and nice things. Success that didn’t come at the cost of my happiness. Maybe that doesn’t sound like the most revolutionary idea, but trust me. It is.

safety blanket

a short piece about fanfiction and growing up

let’s start at the beggining.

when i was ten years old

i mean six

i mean four

i mean twenty-five

doesn’t matter

cause you were there for me

you were soft pages

and escapist fantasy

you were home

you were family

and you didn’t always do it perfectly

but you taught me that love won out

that i could be anything i wanted

that messing up was okay

you held me together, all these years

and that’s gotta count for something, babe

and god, you were there

when the sky was black in the costco parking lot

and i didn’t have anyone to turn to

you were gentle

and you were kind

at a time when i didn’t know that kind of love was possible

and for that, i’m always gonna be grateful

’cause you sung me to sleep

you held me close to your chest

you let me be a kid, for just a couple minutes a day

and when things got bad

i made shadow puppets on the floor

and those imaginary friends, they always told me

that i didn’t have to be afraid anymore

i gave you my heart

and my soul

until i don’t know who i am without you

until the world seems grey without you

until i’m not sure if i’ll ever stop

sleeping with teddy bears

and writing stories about magic

cause you were my safety blanket

when the ceiling crumpled

you held it up like atlas

you gave me the courage i needed to find my way through

and darling, i’m scared

ladybug, i don’t know what i’ll do without you

and my friends will probably laugh

and roll their eyes

’cause they weren’t held together by school-safe glue and craft glitter

for most of their lives

’cause they know how to grow, and change

and leave the thing they love most in the world behind

sweetheart, i’m not ready to grow up

but this twin sized bed is getting smaller by the day

and thumbprint cookies just don’t taste the same

I grew up obsessing over books and stories I liked. Fanfiction was how I learned to write, and it’s still close to my heart. I honestly don’t know where I’d be now without it. It’s made me a better writer, and as I get older, I feel like I have to let it go. I don’t want to be 30 and still desperately clinging to book series I read in middle school. But… honestly, I’ve lost a lot of things, and right now, I don’t think I can stand to let one more go. I don’t think I want to.

A part of me is… a little scared, honestly. That I’m never gonna make my own stories, as good as the ones I could make in a borrowed world.

growing pains

i fall down the hill

’cause the grass rips straight out of the muddy ground

and the rain makes my hair go frizzy

i ruin my favorite pair of jeans

and i cry into my muddy fingers on the way home

i throw shit at the wall just to see what sticks

and i give up on myself, a little bit

’cause the only thing i want to write about

is just behind the door

i scream, and i shout, and i don’t know what to believe anymore

because the more i learn, the more confusing it gets

and i’m doing a puzzle with half the pieces missing

i’m trying to repair something that doesn’t need fixing

yeah i’m walking barefoot through the rain

plastering a smile over asphalt despair

gnashing my teeth, and pulling out my hair

cause all i can see is

stinging nettle glory;

burn my tongue on hot tea

and let its answer roll out before me