tadpole

so i’m wading by the shore, and everything is fine, tadpoles slipping between my toes. but there are monsters living in these waters too. i know that–even if i’ve never gotten one alone. so i’m sure to be extra-careful on the long walk home.

cause there is a god out there, what if he just doesn’t give a shit? cause millions of people have lived miserable lives, determined by factors completely out of their control. and i don’t think you understand, that this not being my fault may as well be the scariest thing in the whole wide world.

’cause if it’s not my fault, then the pain i feel is out of my control. i’d rather blame myself than be the victim, so here we fucking go.

when i was younger, they told me that the second i held a hammer, the whole world would start to look like a nail to me. they said it like a bad thing. but i’m pulling up the drawbridge, i’m closing the gates, and sleeping with one eye open because the world is out to get me. and i’m doing fine! i’m doing great!

except the crocodiles are snapping at my feet, and the mud flats hold depths i don’t want to know; rain knocking down my spine like buildings of old. and i’ll be all right. paint the prettiest stories on the back of my hand to look at, when i get sad. try to remember what the therapist said, and laugh at her stupidity.

’cause i definitely know better than the people who care about me.

2000-and-something // sob story (2)

does it really matter how old i was?

and are we still doing this?

this stupid thing

where i will give you my silly putty heart

and you will weigh its innocence?

***

2000-and-something. i was soft

and guilty

quick breathing

clawing my skin off in the counsellor’s office

’cause it helped me focus, or something

as she told me, told me, told me

that my brain was wired wrong

cyborg girl, can’t be fixed

lazy and reckless and cold

and what was i supposed to do with that? you know?

except in all honesty

i can’t remember what she said

and for all i know, she might have been a perfectly nice person

who was trying her best

but i do know is how it made me feel

like a scratched hard drive

the faulty cog in the machine

who hid under tables

who cried and cried and screamed

but i built up a callous, you see

and i learned a few things that year

don’t cry in the hallways

don’t make a mess

and above all else, just try your best not to feel

’cause then i will be normal

i’ll be happy; i mean honeycomb sweet

i’ll curl my hair

and and wash my face each morning

and if you play the ukulele

i swear i’ll sing along

***

you know what?

maybe the trauma made me better

maybe it smashed my head against the rocks

until poetry bled out; maybe it taught me

to pick my friends carefully

and keep going on

but i was a child

i shouldn’t have had to be strong

so if you’re listening

all the way back from 2000-and-something

i’m sorry

that people hurt you

that you hurt yourself

cause you deserve good things

twirly dresses, bookstore gift cards

play-fights and daydreams

and raspberry hope

i know it’s hard right now, though

i know you trip over your circuits

i know you can’t stay in time

and i’m still working it out

but i do know:

that knife-wounds will soften

and burn marks will fade

and i am trying to be better

every fucking day


Is this becoming a series? Maybe. Probably. I don’t know, I really like this format, and also, writing this piece made me very emotional.

Lots of love,

Lorna

little things

i’m obsessed with gentle love

cardamom palms on my shoulders

and a hand on top of mine

i could eat it up like turkish delight

and write about it all day long

like a little kid, crying into a pillow

some fucked-up brand of self soothing i am too proud to exhume

’cause i’m pissed off and sad

and sometimes, looking in on happy endings from the outside

makes me want to cry

tears of anger and relief

and mostly why why why

i’m obsessed with an infinite love

that stands the test of time

a love where we listen like a symphony

and never stop changing our minds

and we’re eighty years old, and still best friends

so bury us side by side

is that normal?

i don’t really know how this stuff works

so excuse me, if i trip over my words

because my love always tended

to wither in my palms

but i like the little things about you

half-minutes where i just want to believe

that we could stay like this for the rest of eternity

make dinner, and go on a walk

and watch tv

and all this bullshit would be worth it

if i had you, and you had me

and maybe we’d never be each others’ everythings

but you’d be my anchor

and the wind that blows me out to sea

you’d be my lilac spring bloom

and my rose-petal certainty

you’d be soft, and clear like the shore

and i’ll catch you if you catch me


You can interpret this to be about love, but it doesn’t have to be! I feel like we put way too much focus on romantic love, when, like, there are so many other interesting bonds to write about, so I left this piece purposefully ambiguous.

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

 

html

pixelated visions of a perfect world. and what’s happening anymore? because i honestly don’t know. pinterest fashion,  tumblr memes. the same song on loop for, hours on end.

and yeah, i know i’m not alone. i know there are a thousand people out there who might be feeling the exact same way but that still doesn’t change that i am still stuck at home.

and that the birds sing, the wind blows, and jesus fucking christ, is there even a world out there beyond hex colours and html code? because at this point, i honestly don’t know. and i shudder with exhaustion, leaning into these dusty bones. and i don’t want to look on instagram. i don’t even want to turn on my phone. i just want to see you again.

but i can’t. not now.

i know.


So not to sound like your fifth grade health teacher who definitely got more than the designated two seconds of screen time we were supposed to have at that age, but… screen time has actually been, in all seriousness, really weird for me of late. Since my entire life exists on either my phone or laptop, it’s not really hard for me to spend, like, my entire day just sitting there in the same room and barely moving at all. Sometimes I forget to eat, almost every night I end up staying up far too late than is healthy panic-editing or panic-writing something or other, trying to think through my exhaustion–I guess what I’m trying to get at is after day after day of that, it all sort of starts to blur. Everything goes by in fast-forward and slow-motion at the exact same time. And suddenly, it’s like you’re not sure where you begin and where your work, and this artificial thing ends. And you feel fake, and shallow, and I don’t know. It just sucks, and it’s what I drew on as I wrote this poem. And, um, I should have some smart important things to say right here other than that but I’m having trouble keeping my eyes open actually so, um. Yeah, basically the TLDR is that I’m a mess and I keep dissociating because my entire life is working now and wrote this as a way of getting all those icky feelings out a little, even though I still struggle with this a lot to be honest. Also, lockdown is a bitch.

I hope you’re all doing as good as you can be. I hope today is a good day for you. I hope a lot of things, I guess. I don’t know, the 1am brain is working and there is a 200% chance this whole post is incoherent but I am just too tired to care right now.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings