the mesmerized city whispers its name. and it all makes sense, suddenly.

aching shoulders, and the ground beneath my feet. breath in my lungs, wind in the trees…

so just let it go. and leave it be. and let the bridges crumble. surrender my body to the ever-churning lies of history.

force your eyes wide open at two in the morning. hold the crushed glass in your palms, and tiptoe through the debri.

i prick my finger, like a half-ass sleeping beauty. but… i’m old enough to know now that no one’s coming to save me.

If I had a dollar for every time I’d been told to stop worrying about the future and live in the present, I’d be rich enough to… I don’t know, buy so many plants that they would gradually consume my entire house and eat me alive in my sleep. Okay, yeah, that metaphor is not helping prove the point.

Aaaanyhow. My point is, I am the type of person who’s financial planned out into my thirties; who’s got a monthly budget and an earning goal per month to help me save up to afford to rent or buy an apartment when I’m older. I am the type of person who freaks out when plans change, and who goes insane not knowing what exactly I have to do in a day. I like to know how my future is going to look.

But I get so caught up in that sometimes… well, I know this sounds cliche, but I lose sight of what’s actually happening around me.

I’m just so terrified by the passage of time. By the knowledge that I’ll only get to do this once, and I could mess it up, but… I mean, you can’t mess it up if you can’t do anything at all. Right?

Lots of love,


highway exit: home

it’s funny, isn’t it? how the loneliness never really goes away, no matter how happy i am. because in the end, as it stands on the precipice of something like a doorway, i will always be crying on the floor like a fucking little kid, begging it to stay.

how the road stretches out to infinity. and i switch lanes; close my eyes, and despise the sound of blood pounding through my veins. because if my life was a movie, i’d skip right past this part of it, okay?

but god. i can’t wait to see you again. for a minute of normalcy before the sky finally caves. and i know it’s dramatic, but no matter what happens, the gentle gravity of your shoulder will never push me away.

and so my eyes slip closed as i turn down the exit. because we have to be home. don’t we, now? we have to be okay….

how to break free of gravity

  1. take in a big, deep breath. square your shoulders.
  2. focus on the steady thrum of gravity. lie down. let it bury you, in a cheap plastic crown. and you don’t want to move, but you have to, somehow… somehow… and someday, maybe this’ll all be worth it. but for now, you just don’t give a shit…
  3. run, like the fate of the universe depends on you. but it’s useless. because the monsters in your head are never going to leave you.
  4. feel the endless friction, grating against your skin. wearing your scraped, bleeding knees to nothing.
  5. scream at the top of your lungs. because if they get anywhere near you they’re going to hurt you. they’re going to kill you. and you’re so focused on surviving, you forget sometimes why you even bother trying like this…
  6. build a ladder to the moon out of scrap metal and school glue, and somehow feel genuinely surprised when its rungs refuse to hold you.
  7. let your shoulders slump, and your puffy eyes slip shut. you know those images, of forests after the wildfire has passed? in this moment, i know exactly what it is to be made up of pinecones, and ash.
  8. crash into the pillow at 1am, after finally finishing a project. dream about goat cults, or healing, or something else completely ridiculous.
  9. twirl around in a cute dress. take a rose-scented bath. make yourself pancakes for breakfast, and do not feel guilty about the time you could have spent on something more productive than your own happiness. romanticize the little things in your life. pretend to be a studio ghibli protagonist. because… i mean… that’s something, isn’t it?

Anxiety and depression are very confusing, conflicting experiences. They feed off each other, and often I’m feeling depressed and anxious at the same time, but they’re also total opposite experiences, anxiety making me hyperactive and frenetic and depression making me placid and numb. And if just having one at a time was a headache, and strongly feeling both at the same time is even worse.

Being in my own brain can just feel so overwhelming, sometimes. Like every day is just one massive game of tug-of-war where a thousand screaming little children, aka my many mental health problems fight for control.

But sometimes it feels… more like those games of Would You Rather my friends and I used to play on long car rides. You know, you’d come up with two terrible, and usually mildly gross situations, and try and pick between them. (For some reason, that game always gave my anxiety—still does, to be honest.) For example, go to school, and experience crippling panic and self-hatred; spend the rest of the day burnt out and exhausted. Or stay at home all day in my room, and feel depressed and numb and dissociative all day, staring at a screen doing nothing at all, gradually becoming more and more paranoid. It’s like I can never escape it, no matter where I turn, is what I’m trying to get it.

I don’t have an easy, conclusive answer to any of this stuff. I don’t think there is one, and honestly I’m not in a great place right now—this is my first real bout of depression since I got out of therapy, and it really sucks. But I hope this blog can be a refuge from the storm raging in your mind, even if only for a couple of minutes.

Lots of love,


ya novel protagonist

today, i am a ya novel protagonist. except… i can’t do anything about this. and the world falls apart before me; armageddon unfolding live on tv, and maybe nothing is ever going to be okay again.

because the people i love could leave. and everything i’ve worked so hard to build up could fall apart in a second.

today, the walls collapse in on me. but maybe, if i squint, i can still imagine my life pretty. and yet no matter how hard i try, it still won’t mask the stench of this reality.

today, the laugh track plays as i try to wean myself off this obsession. but i can’t. i can’t do it. because the honest truth is… i don’t know who i am without it.

and i tried asking the stars for help. yesterday. but all they did was laugh down on me, their eyes twinkling with pride. and they told me… little girl, don’t lie to yourself. you’re nobody.

and, i mean… they’re not wrong, honestly.

My therapist says it’s bad self-talk, but no matter what she tells me… sometimes, I just can’t help but feel just a little bit broken. It’s panic-writing-on-a-Sunday-night-because-I-never-learned-healthy-work-habits-and-go-between-completely-ignoring-all-of-my-responsibilities-and-working-for-eight-hours-straight hours, so I really can’t remember how much detail I’ve previously gone into about this. But anyhow, essentially the deal is that I had a pretty unconventional childhood, even if you leave out my mental illness, which manifested at a very early age, it often feels like there are these… missing pieces, I guess. Things I should have learned or experienced–but never did. Memos the other kids seemed to all get, and I just… missed out on. And more than that, parts of my brain that just refuse to cooperate with me, no matter how hard I try and force them to work with me. Like I’m just barely limping through my life, because no matter how hard I try, I’ll never be able to truly experience it in any positive way. Does that make sense? I’m damaged goods, is what I’m trying to get at. The broken piece of pie, the sad, drooping lettuce, an old laptop that won’t turn on.

And, like, what are you supposed to do about that? How do you go on? That’s a question I’ve been grappling with for a really long time, and what I tried to base this poem on.

Anyhow, I am very tired, and chugged a very intense and mildly disgusting matcha latte to get this post done (which I am starting to regret) so hopefully you enjoyed, and now I’m going to try and sleep. Maybe I’ll proofread this tomorrow or something; hopefully it’s coherent.

Lots of love,


teen rebellion, or something like that

i don’t need you. you know that? because in fact, i don’t need anyone. because you were always going leave me in the end. i’m not an idiot.

and in case you couldn’t tell, i’m a big girl now. i don’t need anybody’s help.

because big girls hate their bodies, and watch their backs in alleys. big girls don’t trust anybody but themselves.

big girls hate the government. wear fancy clothes for no reason other than that everyone else is doing it.

big girls don’t tell you about their feelings. because you don’t fucking deserve it. stay up until three in the morning, writing fake words on an empty stomach.

big girls don’t speak up. big girls implode. because i’m so fucking confused, and i don’t fucking know. big girls say yes. good girls say no.

and some days, i feel… like i’m about to disappear beneath the weight of the future, pressing its bleeding hands into my shoulders. and now i’m starting to panic…

because i don’t want to know what i’ll find out there if i take off my rose-tinted glasses.

I don’t know when I started to really get into this, but I guess I don’t really like telling people how old I am. Even though I’m actually a December birthday, and therefore almost always the youngest kid in any room of people in my grade–like, I have never in my life shared a class or had friends in my grade who were younger than I am. But for some reason, people always seem to assume I’m 2-4 years older than I am, which I guess is in part is just because I’m such an overacheiver. Throughout my entire sixth grade year, my teacher literally never managed to pick up on that I wasn’t in grade seven. During various events I’ve done, people are always surprised about my age, and I get a lot of comments about how mature I am. And although I know those people are well-meaning, sometimes it can feel like I can’t be a kid and also be passionate and professional and do a really good job. So after a while, I guess I just kind of started to feel ashamed of the fact that I am a teenager, who sometimes does teenager things. I’m not entirely comfortable talking about this online, but I think this is a good step for me. (Even though a lot of my audience is older.) And I hope this poem is a little peek into a side of my personality I don’t really show online that often, and that it was somewhat relatable to your teenager experience, whether you’re still a teenager now, or you’re an adult looking back on those years. 🙂

Lots of love,