polaroid

i am faded paper, and greyscale eyes. waking up with a headache, and not knowing why.

and i am begging you to pick up the phone. but you never did care. so you won’t. and you’ll leave me, stranded in a run-down alley, all on my own.

so i’ll bury it; beneath check-marks and to-do lists; a constant, thrumming debate. but despite my glimmering hope, none of those things ever really did take off the weight. just made me scared, and selfish. and desperate for escape.

but here i am; staring into the mirror, at a face i know all too well. and don’t you remember being ten, writing for hours on a shitty computer; laughing like alice as you fell?

or that night, in eighth grade, your first time using a microphone. but despite the hummingbird pulse of your heart… something about it felt like home.

and in that small moment. despite my sagging eyes and weary bones, as the midday light hits my broken skin, i feel… whole.


For the first time in a while, I really feel… I don’t know, like writing can be something I actually do for myself—and not just for, I don’t know, capitalism? A bunch of strangers on the internet? The voices in my head?

I just… I feel like something new. Something alive. A new leaf, I guess, pushing up from the ground. (Is that a really cheesy, overused metaphor? Probably. In my defense, I have a job gardening and I just got off, so my brain is a little bit fried—if I see one more invasive vine, I think I’m going to explode.)

Suddenly, I remember exactly why I fell in love with writing. And even if no one else is ever going to care about it, even if it won’t get me rich, it doesn’t matter. Because as cheesy as it sounds, I know that this is what I am meant to be doing. And I can’t help but feel like… like everything I had to go through to get here was worth it. That it happened for a reason. And whether or not that’s actually true, sometimes it’s the only thing that gets me through the hard days. The days when everything feels heavy, and impossible, and all I want to do is curl up in a ball and give up.

For the first time in my life, I look in the mirror and like who I’m becoming. I like her twirly dresses, and her tousled brown hair. I like her round, soft cheeks, and her tan lines, and her freckles. I look in the mirror, and I see someone who is strong, and alive, and maybe just a little bit of a badass.

And I think that’s pretty fucking cool.

Lots of love,

dragonwritesthings

april 15th, 2020

fingers tapping on the keyboard. heart of stone. and i don’t need your help. i’m doing just fucking fine on my own.

and aren’t you such a cliché?  such a cute little girl? and oh, just let it go. tear your heart out of your chest with your bare hands, and watch as it melts blood-red into the snow.

and the walls press in on me, and my butterfly pulse continues weakly, and suddenly i am a bomb about to explode.

and my eyes are missing puzzle pieces. and my lungs are broken glass. and i just need to let it go. just need to swallow it down with a spoonful of sugar, and let the medicine go down like it’s supposed to.

and riddle me this. and riddle me that. because i don’t know what i want when i’m near you.

because you tell me who i am, and suddenly i’m a ripped wool sweater, unravelling on the floor before you.

and i didn’t think i was this pathetic. but apparently… i don’t know shit.


I don’t really know where this piece came from–there’s no specific inspiration. I’ve had my fair share of at best questionable and at worst toxic relationships (not of the romantic kind, just, you know, relationships in general) though, and I think really how those made me feel–all those combined bad memories just sort of combined to form this poem, I don’t know. Being stuck inside the house has really left me a lot of time to ruminate on my memories–time I would rather not have, honestly, but I guess maybe something good will come out of it.

-dragonwritesthings

better than nothing

i don’t want to write anything. and i don’t want to move, and i don’t want to breathe, and please. just leave me in peace.

 i don’t want to write anything, so i’ll write you this. this depressing piece of shit. this empty list of words, clunking around my head.

because it’s better than nothing, right? because if i’m not gonna write anything anymore, then… here. have this.

 have the remains of my heart after a late-night panic attack because of course something went wrong. and of course i couldn’t stop thinking about it.

have the wind biting into my cheeks, and blowing through my hair. and the voice in my head, that just wants to get the fuck out of here.

and take it. take all of it.

i don’t think i’ll be needing it anymore.


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you don’t deserve any of this

so self-centred. i can’t believe you’d do this.

so go on. take a bow. and rip your skull to pieces, and drop it on the ground, because i don’t know who convinced you that you matter, but they were wrong. 

your mind is a slippery slope. and it’s time you resigned yourself to the fact that eventually, you’re gonna fall.

because you don’t deserve any of this. so shut up. stop whinging about your problems.

it’s time to go.


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another sad poem

pick yourself up, girl. i’m tired of seeing you like this. just stitch together the gaping black holes in your chest and laugh it all together. because that’s all it takes, i swear. all you really have to do is just fake a smile, and drink green tea, and focus really really hard on getting better.

just lift yourself up, up, and so far above. like me. smile from the top of the sky and see? everything was fine. so don’t come crying to me with another boring piece of sad poetry. you’re bringing down the vibe. you’re kind of acting like a baby.

come on. don’t be this way. just sprinkle rainbows and sunshine on your shoulders, and turn that frown upside down. because this isn’t a mental illness. just another sign, of another person riddled with weakness.

and you know? i really thought you were better than this.


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