i call myself a narcissist

i spent most of my childhood narrating my life in third person. waiting for the portal to open, and take me away to some fantasy realm, which i would save someday. ’cause i was gonna charge into battle like a knight in shining armour, with my mentor behind me. i’d make lots and lots of friends, and call them my new family, so i’d never miss home. i’d go on lots of adventures, and maybe even get a movie, so bunch of grown-ups could make millions off my fate. and in the back of my mind, i’m still waiting.

still walking through lonely forests and opening up musty cupboard doors, just in case, and talking to the girl in the mirror like she knows what to do. because it’d be nice to run away. and finally see that land i take myself too when reality gets too loud to face; some weird self-soothing mechanism, or maybe i really was just born this way.

and when i fill out application forms, and talk to the guidance counsellor, i see the whole world stretched out before me. it is plastic, and glistening, and suddenly: i am ten years old: at the shopping mall with no money, running hands over fifty-dollar coats and dreaming of someday.

and in my head, there are a thousand different voices, competing for attention. in my head, i am clawing my way up a wall of rankings with my bare hands. i am constantly keeping score. even when no one asked, even when i’m the only person who gives a shit about this anymore.

in my head, i am flawless and beautiful. in my head, i am the worst person alive. and i don’t know which one of those is true, but just to be safe, i fade quietly to the background. i wear big t-shirts, and the same fucking pair of jeans for three days. i don’t say anything at all.

i shatter at the slightest critique, avoid conflict like the plague. and i know i can be wrong, i know the world is not always out to get me. but in my head, it’s a war zone; every last inch of it. so i’ll put on my armour, and i’ll rush into the fray, knowing full well that the only person i hurt was myself today.

there is a mouse in my attic

i hear it, skittering around at night. feel it gnawing on my fingers while i sleep sometimes. and when i wake up, there is blood on the sheets. but it’s all right…

i see it, out of the corner of my eye. its teeth sharp; red eyes glowing in the dark. it is quiet, and polite. and it reminds me of myself sometimes.

on those endless, burning summer nights. when i stare into the mirror, and i look like someone else. but maybe i’m tired… maybe it’s just a trick of the light…

i can feel it. as the the mouse scrambles up onto my shoulder, and stares back at me, smiling crookedly.

and i hate it. as i lie still as a statue, allowing it to deconstruct my body. tunnel swiss-cheese holes into my chin, as it chatters happily.

but… maybe i can’t help but love it, too. in all honesty.


I feel so broken, sometimes. And I think the worst part is, that in all honesty, I’m not good at hiding it. In theory, I’m sure I could–but I’m too busy for that, and also a shit liar.

In my mind, though, I am a careerwoman. A beautiful, golden success. I am professional, kickass,, and okay, and keep mental health as far away from my work life as possible.

In reality, though, I mean… I did a little gardening gig for a family friend a few weeks ago, and he would always offer me water, on these really hot days when I’d been in full sun for hours on end. And I’d always say no, until I literally thought I might pass out. I worked faster and faster, out of fear of costing him too much money. I purposefully put out my back one time. And I couldn’t help but get obsessed over these little things that weren’t quite right, and what started out as “attention to detail” quickly became toxic perfectionism. I don’t know if he noticed or cared; could see my mess of a mind peeking out from beneath the paperthin mask, but it made me feel awful.

You know, it’s funny. I’ve only cried in front of my best friends a couple of times. I cry in public a fair bit to be honest–potentially more than I cry in my house. (By public, I mean at nine o’clock on my street with two people in sight, but still.)

And yet in front of friends or family; people who could actually hurt me in a meaningful way if they wanted, while I’m in that state of vulnerability–that’s what scares me. That’s why I never let it happen, and why I always try to brush it off, say I’m fine, even though I know perfectly well I’m not fooling anyone.

Despite how far I’ve come in terms of dealing with my own internalized stigma, despite all of my inner circle of friends knowing about my mental illness, I still desperately want to come across as fine, and healthy to them. No matter how obvious it is I’m not either of those things.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

i don’t know what to say

trigger warning: self-harm and suicide mention. need to talk to anyone? resources are here.

it’s been ages since i’ve really written poetry.

and i don’t know. things have been crazy. and every day, my life gets harder. and every day, my stack of things to do grows taller. and my head starts to ache. and if i stare in the mirror for long enough, i’ll always find another aspect of myself to hate.

so i guess it’s easier. to just spend hours lying in bed, sweaty clothes and tired eyes, and burying myself in internet culture. because i don’t know what to write anymore. 

and did i tell you about the other day? about how i cried for most of the night. and i did two twenty-question math tests, back to back, and i started writing a suicide note, and i thought i might pass out, and i studied for six hours straight, and everything i tried to write came out underlined in red.

and did i tell you about how i missed therapy? because i’m sick, and i’m tired, and you know when you start forgetting appointments scheduled weeks in advance that you just don’t care anymore.

did i tell you that where there used to be all these feelings in my chest, now there’s mostly just… dust, and sand, and emptiness? tell you about how much i miss the idea of being carefree and innocent, even though i don’t think in my entire life i’ve ever felt like that? tell you about watching disney movies and needing every second of it?

did i tell you that i cut myself? that i don’t think i’ll ever really stop doing it?

or did i mention that my drafts folder is empty, and my fingers are bloody, and… i don’t know the words for this anymore.


I think this is a definitely very experimental style, but I’m proud of it anyhow I guess. I think I wrote this a couple weeks ago, in the depths of a mental breakdown, but at that kind of point where you know you need to write something, and in that moment… that was this.

-dragonwritesthings

some fucked up kind of lullaby

hey. it’s ok. i’m not sleeping either. but can’t you remember? when they used to treat you like you could shatter? when your mom would make you lunch, or drive you to the bookstore, or sit outside your bedroom door and sing lullabies for hours.

you’re older now, of course. no one does that anymore. and i guess i’m really that easily manipulated, because i’ll do anything to feel that way. even just… for one moment more.

and i don’t… i don’t know who you are. but the sky is clear tonight. and as the moonlight streams through my window, it’s hard not to miss the stars.

and isn’t it so strange? how something that used to mean so much to you when you were little can seem so dumb and fucked up under the light of day? 

and don’t you remember? when you were six years old, and everything finally fucking shattered?

or the time you tried to run away, 2016, pouring rain. and your neighbour found you, and walked you home again. and don’t you remember? how embarrassed you felt. and how hard you cried, and how much you hated yourself…

it’s okay. you’re safe. it’s over now.


I really like this piece, I might turn it into a whole spoken word thing! I’ve been thinking I’ll probably start posting a lot more YouTube content soon. Um, I think I wrote it at, like….. probably midnight, after my light was off, on my phone, too wired to sleep. That’s how I imagine it anyway. I often get really emotional late at night, and for some reason it tends to bring back a lot of really… I don’t know, tender and pretty raw memories. When I was little, my mom really did do that. I couldn’t sleep, because of my anxiety, so she’d sing me lullabies at the doorway of my room until I nodded off.

I just… being a kid sucked–but I just miss those  little things. That somehow, for a moment, amidst an ocean of fucked-up-ness, made it okay.

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surgery

& please oh god oh please / stitch the fault lines into neat seams / slash and cut and tear me into something else so i can breathe / because i can’t breathe / sometimes / when  your hand brushes mine / and it’s not pretty / or romantic / when i say i can’t breathe i mean i start to fucking panic / & hey / can we just talk for a while because / i think my head is gonna explode into little glass pieces on the floor if i don’t tell someone about it / & i’m overcaffeinated / & useless / reaching out with one hand through the piercing dark / & why / why does my life always have to be this hard? / i mean shut up / you don’t have a right to say anything you’ve been through is hard / and maybe the voice is right / maybe they’re right / maybe it’s time to give up / & just / let myself fall apart


Reaching out to others is really important for me. I guess that’s why I’m writing this blog in the first place–because reaching out to others is probably the only reason I’m in the place I am in life right now, honestly.

(I promise I’m safe, I just wrote this a couple months ago while I was in a really dark place.)

Find me on PatreonYouTubeInstagramWattpadTumblr, and on Twitter.