i fill up the teapot with peppermint, fresh from the garden. bring my blood to a rolling boil, and pour it into fine china. wait patiently for the devil to form.

and of course, he tempts me. with golden dollar bills, and opaque words. i sip my tea. tap my fingers on the kitchen table, and listen. carefully.

i visit the graveyard in my closet. lay calendula petals, over the paperthin corpse of destiny.

i slip out the door; empty backpack on my shoulders. and i wander through the desert for days.

savouring the sourdough taste of my decomposing words.

far, far away

she is musty air; a humid day. she is collapsed on the ground, about to crash out. watching herself from far, far away.

she is long, rambling poems, and photo prints. rotting hay. the ashen scent of self-hatred; just barely kept at bay.

an aching back, and tired eyes. and we’ll tell her to stop. we’ll beg her to sleep. but she won’t listen. because she may be young, and stupid. but she will not be weak.

even as the spots start to form in her vision. and as yet another scab forms on her cheek. and maybe she can’t breathe anymore, but… it’s fine. it doesn’t matter.

and at least she has a stack of dollar bills to love her, at the end of the week.

i fall asleep with the lights on

i still sleep with teddy bears, sometimes. clutch an empty body close to my chest, listening to the steady thrum of your heart like it’s all that i have left.

and i still get nightmares, sometimes. wake up covered in a cold sweat, the wild west wind brushing gently through my hair.

i still sleep with the light on, sometimes. when i get scared. when the monsters under the bed start to growl, and all i want to do is vanish into thin air.

listening to disney music on repeat like some kind of twisted prayer, and imagining the notes can somehow replace you. but they can’t.

and… they don’t want to.

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,