i make a home between the warning signs

the apple tree leaves sway in the breeze. and i want to cry, because it’s been a week since i’ve actually fucking let myself sleep. because i forgot what happy people are supposed to do.

so yeah. maybe i let them get under my skin. let them grovel, and pray. let them barter, and pursue. maybe i did it for the money, but… wouldn’t you?

maybe i let them pull the wool over my eyes; turned over a thousand leaves in my mind. wondering why none of them felt new.

maybe i find myself between the lines. chart it all out in rhythm, and rhyme. i make a home between the warning signs. because… i have to.

close my eyes, and crash into the hillside; a mess of battle wounds. and i beg the sun, in all its might, to make me anew.

I’m sure this poem could be better, but this is all the editing I have time for right now. It’s been a long day–it’s been a long month, honestly. With work, and school, and writing, and basic hygiene/cooking/cleaning, and maintaining a very minimalist social life, there just isn’t much time left over. Some days, I like that–because I thrive off of work. Without something to focus on, my mind just kind of short-circuits.

But at the same time, I get tired, after a while.

And at first, that’s all it is. Tired. It’s lethargy; lying around in bed for half an hour longer than I needed to. It’s sleeping through twelve alarms. It’s crying when I burn onions, or lose the keys or what have you. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, that mild state of depression is all it is ever amounts to. But more often than not, I find myself just feeling… empty. And hopeless. I cry when I read the news, and I think about death all the time. I try to keep up, with the neverending list of things to do, but I just can’t. And without something to focus on, I spiral further and further, until at some point, I panic; because I’ve just spent the past seven hours watching TV, Youtube, or generally frittering my time away, it’s 9pm, and I have a whole day’s worth of work to get through. Which undoubtedly leads into the frenetic typing, the constant working from the moment I wake up to the moment I go to bed; always biting off more than I can chew, and freaking out every time something goes the slightest bit wrong. In this state, I constantly feel guilty; take responsibility for things I didn’t even do. And eventually, I burn out; repeating the cycle all over again.

Every two days, to two weeks, I get maybe at least an hour an at most a day of buffer time. Time, when I’m just okay; when the chemicals in my brain aren’t making everything a struggle. And it’s nice. But it’s not enough.

Sometimes, I see what other people are up to. And, not gonna lie, I get jealous. Because how is it fair, that they can just do these amazing things, that I want so desperately, without this level of fallout as a result? If I didn’t have to spend so much of my life panicking because of a slightly awkward conversation, or crying because it feels like my life is hopeless, what would I be doing right now?

But it’s just hypothetical. Just a fantasy in my head. The reality is–at least for now–this is my life.

I have made a home between the warning signs. Not because I want to–but because right now, I don’t have any other options.

Lots of love,



the vicious current of my mind won’t leave me alone. but it’s fine. because the cream-white canvas sail will always be there, to hold me. love me. and promise, as i start to drift off, that i’m gonna be all right.

and it will sing its siren song. tell me it’s gonna be okay. and i’ll be so transfixed; i won’t even notice, as the stars begin to fade…

they told me not to touch the stove. and yet somehow, i find myself, gulping down nuggets of red-hot charcoal. candle wax dripping down my cheeks; nimble matchsticks lighting up my throat.

charybdis is hungry tonight. and you are oh, so gone

barely even putting up a fight at all. as she reels your wayward body in. as the shoreline takes your flimsy skeleton as its own. as your faithful sailboat leaves you high and dry.

and oh, my dear. i can’t believe you’re still surprised!

thicker than water, i suppose

blood really must be thicker than water, i suppose. if it can ooze down the stairs this way. slip into the cracks in the sidewalk, so i don’t notice when it follows me home.

or when slips into the bombshell eyes of the people i used to trust. the people i used to know. and now a thousand spiders find me, in broken promises. and frantic whispers. but when their shining eyes beg silently for help, i will always say no.

and i will ignore the stories. oh, the thousands upon thousands of stories, swimming through my lungs. devouring my shaking body whole.

and i will listen closely, when the butterflies say… oh, little girl, wouldn’t you like to fly? wouldn’t you like to rip up the rotting pages of history, and just rise above it all.

and so i will live vicariously, through telephone poles and long-passed airwaves. leaving behind nothing but crumpled yellow wings, and crimson bloodstains.

off the deep end

last night, i crashed my bike. on some stranger’s driveway. i cried, like a one year old.

like a little kid. with her crocodile smiles, and her eggshell bones…

cried, because i love too deeply. and because i don’t want things to change. i don’t want to say goodbye. cried myself a river, like was fucking going to die.

and watched as the bruises grew wider; creating something of an abyss.

last night, i stared at myself in the mirror. wiped away all the blemishes, and did my hair. pinched my cheeks, until they looked like wrinkled up newspaper.

I’ve read before that getting upset by small things you wouldn’t normally is usually a sign of depression. Which explains a lot of how I’ve been feeling of late.

I lose my keys, and I started crying yelled at my dad. I fall off my bike and can’t stop crying. I can’t find my shoes, and I feel useless and stupid.

Most days—especially since I’ve been going through a pretty nasty rough patch of late—have been hard. Not gonna lie. I am holding myself together, and I am doing what I need to do. But I am doing it by a thread. And the second one thing goes wrong… I lose it. I fall apart. And I pick myself back up again.

And in all honesty, it’s been feeling… like the odds are just tilted against me these days. Like fate, or whatever, is just doing everything it can to make sure I fail. Like I’m just being slammed against the rocks, again and again, and sometimes it just gets so exhausting to keep fighting.

To get out of bed. To take a shower. To get dressed. To pull myself out of the deep end every single day. It is exhausting, and boring, and stressful.

It is hard. And I will do it anyway.

Lots of love,



i… i am a dried up riverbed, burning alive in the heat of summer, as the crickets chirp, and the people laugh. eyes stained dark with wonder.

teeth long and crooked, voicebox trembling with strange, frantic desire. and what came first? the witch, or the pyre. how many more skeletons i can stuff in my closet, before they catch fire?

and i think that the animalistic shudder of your voice will always win. the endless hours stretch on, stained with pixelated colours, peeling skin…

and that familiar, acrid smoke. an age-old enemy; eyes soft and rosy with the aftertaste of thunder. his words a neverending din.

and maybe it’s self-care. but… maybe it’s just giving in.

I don’t really remember what I posted in quarantine, honestly those three months just felt like one big blur.

But if I was being honest, which I try my best to be on this blog, I would have told you about how much I was struggling to process all the things that were going on.

Throughout the lockdown, I was only able to keep myself out of a depressive episode by denying it was happening at all. I told myself that I was staying home because I wanted to. That my friends had left me, or moved away, or died. And over the months, they became little video game characters, dancing across my phone screen–weak imitations of what they used to be.

Was it great? No. But it was the only thing that got me through those four months without slipping into a really dark place–with no one there to help me see the light.

I told myself, then, that once this was all over, I would deal with it. I would sit down with my therapist, and let it all out, and I would give myself the time I needed to process from a safe distance.

But, I mean, you can only hold it in so long, I guess. Because that time I thought of in March… well, that time is now. I am more scared of COVID than I was during the actual lockdown, and whenever I hear about it on the radio I go into a panic. And it just… it all hits me at once; everything I held in back then.

I don’t know if I made the right decision. Or if, given the option, I would make it again. But… I do know that it feels like I’m drowning sometimes. Reliving it, a thousand times more terrifying than it actually was. And I don’t have a therapist to help anymore. I’m all on my own.

For better or for worse.

I go back to school tomorrow. (Tomorrow as I write this, today by the time you read this.) I’m in Canada, although to be honest with you the whole reopening plan for regular school seems iffy at best. But because I do my work via a computer, and I can set my own hours for how much I want to go into school, I’m not too worried–you have to sanitize your hands before going into the computer lab, everything is socially distanced, and honestly it’s sounding pretty great from my perspective. I mean, if I have the option to share a computer lab with the only other person who signed up, and never have to get within twenty feet of them, I am down for that. Still a bit nervous though, to be honest–because change is scary. Because facing this stuff is scary. (Also, yes, that is why there weren’t as many posts this week!)

But I know that… sometimes, the thing you’re afraid of is a lot more dangerous in your mind than it is in the reality. That sometimes, when you face it, it’s not really as bad. That living with anxiety is facing your fears every single day. I’ve done it before, and I will do it again.

Lots of love.