itch (spoken word)

trigger warning: compulsive/self-destructive behavior, blood mention.

As I discussed when I originally posted this poem, a little while ago, compulsive skin-picking has plagued me for a really long time–since I was seven years old, at least. It’s something I’ve been doing so long, I guess I’ve kind of learned to normalize it.

I wish I had some coping mechanisms to give you guys about this, because it’s a really hard thing to struggle with, and honestly there aren’t enough people talking about this stuff openly online. But to tell the truth, I don’t know what I’m doing any more than you do. I’ve hinted at it with my therapist a couple times, but I’m still terrified to bring it up any more deeply with her. (Ironically, I feel like therapists are in general probably some of the least judgmental people out there.) I’ve heard lots of stuff thrown around online, and tried some of them. But I guess nothing has ever really stuck with me, because deep down, it doesn’t feel like a problem I need to fix at all. It’s just something I do, and the only real drawback of it is, yanno, spending three hours on the bathroom convincing myself if I just make myself bleed a little harder it’ll heal over perfect, and glowing, and beautiful. (It never does.) And the weird trancelike place I enter, where I don’t even feel like myself. And the anxiety of constantly criticizing my appearance. And the deep-seated body image issues that make me feel that self-conscious are a huge part of why I pick at myself in the first place. But it still just sort of feels, no matter how much I try to reframe it, like a normal thing I’m just going to do no matter what, and that isn’t really harmful to me.

But mixing this piece was somehow just really therapeutic and helpful. And I think it was something I really needed to do. To just sit with this monster in my head, and try to understand it for a while.

Lots of love,


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a walk in the rain

and i can’t remember / the last time the world cracked itself open like this / and my hair got wet / and i splashed in the puddles like a little kid / and tried to pretend i didn’t wish you could see it / and it’s funny / how these days anything outside of my backyard feels / like practically a world away / and some days… i’m okay / and some days / i am a broken mirror / desperately trying to duct tape irreparable mistakes back together / and i don’t know how life / can be this way / heartbreaking / and beautiful / and silly / like one of those movies / that’s so fucking stupid / but here you are / four hours in / still watching anyway / and you say it’s old / and you say it’s bullshit / but at the bottom of your heart / you never really believed it  / and it’s strange / that in this moment / i can miss you like a sinkhole opening up in my chest / taking all the good things with it / and also know / that no matter what happens / we’ll get through it.

I know things are hard right now. And this isn’t to underplay any of that. I guess I’m just at the point in my life right now… where I don’t like this, but I also know that I can’t really change it. And I guess while all of this is happening, I may as well make the best of it. Try to… find some kind of silver lining or whatever, I guess. Which is not to say that things aren’t really shitty right now, but I’m also at a point where I can live with it. I don’t like it, but I can survive it. And it’s a good feeling–to feel strong like that. The closest thing to stable I can be, I guess. I mean, it’s not exactly something I get to feel very often.

Anyhow. I hope you all are hanging in there throughout everything going on right now.

Lots of love,


the yellow brick road

trigger warning: potentially disturbing imagery.

come on. just do it. just follow the yellow brick road. and smile, and laugh, and pose, as the glitter falls like rain, and the harp music plays. and come on. you can do it. just pretend you don’t notice the pain.

put on your pretty red shoes. adjust your gingham dress. and off you go. just like the stories said. and if you ignore the screams in the distance, or the rot writhing inside each and every magic pumpkin… it’s kind of beautiful. isn’t it?

and the vultures swoop down for what’s left of you. and you bite back a scream. but this happens all the time, you know. because you silly little girl, just do what you’re told. just keep walking. just let it go.

just take deep breaths. and ignore it, when the thoughts come for you, sharp needles piercing your skin. fumble for your thimble, and clean out the wound as best you can.

and it doesn’t matter what makes you comfortable. it matters what’s in right now. so curtsy, and adjust your lipstick, and you’ll figure it out somehow.

psychedelic colours. and maybe it’s a daydream. maybe it’s a nightmare. but this can’t be happening. not now.

or at least that’s what you tell yourself. as the blood dribbles down your knee. and it red stains on your shirts don’t even surprise you anymore.

as you stare at the ticking clock on your computer. watching. as you get older, and older…

This is gonna sound really self-congratulatory, but I’m actually so proud of this piece, I don’t think I’ve ever written anything like it before. And that feels good. Really, really good. I don’t know if I’ve felt this proud about a piece in a while. I don’t really know where it came form, I don’t know


so i’m a sad thirty year old now, apparently

the stars are out. and i should be asleep. like every single part of my body is telling me. and i can’t handle this, and yet somehow… i can’t stop doing it. because at least there’s one thing i’m good at, despite everything.  

and there’s something so addicting, about whole worlds sprouting out from my fingers. and maybe if my life in the real world is over, i can just… escape. forever. 

and i should be proud. but i don’t know how to be. and all accomplishment brings me these days is this weird moment of empty. and i’ve been working on this for so fucking long, that i’m starting to hate it, honestly. and doing what i love shouldn’t exhaust me.

but at this point i’m just… i’m too tired to care anymore. so whatever. just let it be. let the jewels of my mind drift down to the ocean floor. let the dust settle on the pages.

i don’t want to do this anymore.

I have this long running joke with my friends, about how lockdown is slowly turning me into a sad thirty year old, hence the title of this poem. Basically without having friends or whatever my life has been reduced pretty much work and only work, as I’ve probably mentioned before. Like, when I wake up, I don’t think “oh, I’m going to do this fun thing with my friends!”or whatever (because there is no fun thing I’m doing with my friends). I think “what do I have to do today?” And I do it, with more like these little quick intermissions for my life to happen–FaceTime calls and watching movies and reading books and stuff. I guess I’ve just been raised with this really toxic, horrible culture, that work is everything, work is your worth as a person, and you’re never going to be able to do the things you love, no matter how hard you work–because most of success is just having a rich family with connections mixed with random chance. And although I wish I didn’t believe that… I don’t know, I guess I still can’t help but wonder sometimes.

And these days, it just feels like work is… kind of consuming me, I guess. Ever so slowly. Like, I don’t know what my life is without it–and I don’t want to. Because I know I can do this, and do it pretty okay, considering my age. But I don’t feel the same way… about being a person. Honestly, I don’t have a clue how to do that. So instead, I just bury myself in deadlines and projects and responsibilities, and… I stay there. Because it’s easier like that.


bleeding colours / and i bite into my cheeks / and suddenly the whole world is spinning / and my ribcage caves in / all too quickly / and this is the thing about anxiety / if you give in / you can follow it straight down to infinity / neon lights and brain-dead eyes / and i struggle for words / and suddenly / i’m drowning in the dizzying rush of textures / and i can’t think through this / don’t know what you’re supposed to do about this / so just get it out as fast as you can / cheap and dirty / because that’s / all that matters anyway / shaking fingers and shattered ceramic / on the kitchen floor / as thunder roars in my mind / and is this what it feels like to die? / broken fuse / cast aside / but hey / at least / it looked good / on instagram / right?

I don’t know why, but a couple weeks ago I was really struggling with sensory overload. For some reason, it seems to have gone away, but as I wrote this it was becoming really, really hard to deal with. The littlest things, like my parents talking at the other end of my house, or the blender turning on would send me into panic. It felt like the walls were caving in around me or something. Everything became too much. And I didn’t know how to escape it, Still don’t. What do you do when even the slightest stimulus feels like it’s attacking you? When the walls felt like they were choking you?

Anyhow, yeah.  It’s just really hard, when you don’t even feel safe in your own body. I guess. I don’t know why it happened, or what triggered it. I don’t know if it’ll ever be coming back, but… it’s a thing. And it happened. And I guess, somehow, I got through it.