pinprick

puncture wound –
  a bruise beneath the surface
wake up in a sweat
apprehensive breath

finger pricks
  lancet tricks
      drops of blood on                      
          testing strips
wake up with a pain
what a shame
not again
  break the skin –
     needles in

nibbling candy corn and
  taking naps
a hand that shakes
so badly
you can’t even hold
the pill bottle
upright

   green on your thumbs &
   sandpaper mouth
   you drink enough water
   to drown
   a horse and sleep with
   cramps
   clutching at your ribs

puncture wound –
a finger has to bleed.

living isn’t cheap

in the morning, you smell of juicy fruit gum

parched

a drought in your mouth

soaked

a slick sheet of sweat

on the side of your bed

a finger prick that hurts again

a needle in your hand again –

guzzling from a bottle

you find that you

can’t breathe

(and your medication

won’t be free)

hey,

they say,

you need to put on weight,

they say,

and you’re too skinny, guy

hey,

we say,

we eat our food,

we say,

you know we’ve fucking tried

a clicking of your pen again

it smells of hospital again –

needles are a pain

but do or die

and anyway

you’ve poked yourself so many times

it’s not even a bother

anymore

wake up in the middle

of the night

bad pictures in your mind

wake up in the middle

of the night

when you let out a breath, it leaves a sweet smell.

chartreuse

and i sit

my fingers grappling

purple stained from the

ink

of my feather pen

and i watch

as you work the room

the way you do

& what is a beautiful face like yours

doing in an unravelled mind like mine?

and i stare

my face upturned

monotonous and blank

the way it always is

and i speak so infrequnetly

i may as well not speak at all

& you don’t tell me

you love me

but you don’t have to

a splash of orange

in the sky

sets a dreamy atmosphere

i trace over my canvas

and my pencil

and your skin

and i sit

my fingers cramped from capturing

& why does the silence

sound different

when i am with you?

my mind tingles

the kind of noise

that isn’t noise at all

& i can’t sleep

& i dream in colour

you are my favourite colour

and you splash over the edges

do u think im pretty check yes or no

she’s been romanticising reality, the only way she
knows to seize control again.
and you didn’t hear this from her, but she’s been
worrying, about you, even though you
swear there’s nothing to worry about.
it’s easy for you to say.
but just between you and i,
it’s fear of the unknown,
that’s what really does a person in.
there’s a million different ways to tell a person
you love them
and i’ve heard you say
some of them
without saying anything at all
but she’s been romanticising her past
to make up for all the time she’s wasted in
shitty relationships.
you’d praise me for letting go of something toxic.
they’re all so eager for change until they realize they’re the ones being left behind
but that doesn’t matter anymore.
she’s changed herself a hundred times
to be the person everybody wants
sometimes it’s a lot easier to pretend
than it is to accept.
don’t mind me, i’m terribly impulsive
and i’ll follow you into the desert
without batting an eye.
don’t leave me alone out here,
i’m terribly passive and i’d starve to death
before asking a stranger for food.
she daydreams a lot,
it’s rather embarrassing but she’s too
afraid to tell you she likes you.
sometimes when you sleep, i stay awake and
watch you tunnel underneath the sheets
even when you’re pale and sleepy
you look lovely
she falls asleep in a nest of blankets
and never has bad dreams

there’s no need for sleeping
when it’s dark and you’re alone

another one of my existential crises [and i have a lot]

I’m not sure why, but lately I feel obsessed with the idea of mortality. I’ve been having insomnia just thinking about how I’ll die, and when, and what happens to a person after they’re gone. There’s all this stuff about pandemics and the earth becoming uninhabitable, and I’m getting older, and I know it’s inevitable and everything, but I just feel really scared of getting old and death and it’s made worse by the fact that nobody knows if there’s an afterlife or if we all just vanish into oblivion when we’re dead.


I’m always having these dreams or thoughts of my diabetic boyfriend or my son getting terribly terribly ill and it’s this worry that won’t go away and it’s exhausting. Like, I don’t know why I’m so afraid. One day I’ll be dead. One day my parents will be dead. One day the human race won’t even exist anymore. I guess maybe it’s just fear of the unknown that’s getting to me? I think most people are afraid of oblivion. But my brain just won’t stop nagging me about it and it’s really distracting.

Another thing is, I look back on my life and I’m nowhere near where I thought I’d be at this point. I haven’t accomplished most anything I thought I’d have accomplished by now. What am I even doing? It’s like ugh I feel like I’m wasting my life, you know? I haven’t travelled the world. I haven’t published a book. I haven’t gotten married or changed the world or graduated college or followed my dreams. I don’t know, it’s just dejecting, like what exactly have I been doing for the past 25 years? I know life isn’t about accomplishment or whatever, but I’m hard on myself, and I really just regret not doing the things I really wanted to do earlier.

What’s the point, though? We’re all going to die someday anyway.

when you write my eulogy [and all the things i want you to say]

i want you to indulge in the fact that i was not as accomplished as i was passionate, 
  that i did not dream of anything other than things i could not have,
    and that i fell in love easily and often.
        do not bury the truths under sugar coated compliments or attempt to hide the mysteries of my mind and soul.
   i want you to revel in the enigma i leave behind,
    for i will remain a mystery as long as the moon remains in the star-coated sky.
   i want you to leave a message of my sensitive nature:
 unsheathe the secret that i was a romantic soul, 
 i did not love lightly, or briefly, 
   my heart was easy to steal and even easier to break. 
      do not leave out the fact that i craved the chance to be vulnerable, 
    but that i did not often let myself take that chance
for i was often afraid
  and did not often know why.
  i wish you not to claim my intelligence as anything more than introspective:
do not ignore the ugliness of my past mistakes
  or the fragility of my human mind – 
           for i was always far more intense than i was careful,
                  and i often dreamt so vividly i seemed to live within my own faraway world. 
   i want you to say that i was careless when it came to myself,
       and that i cared far too much when it came to anything else,
           and please, do not be afraid to admit
                 my fickle habits, my most unappealing thoughts.
                     tell the world that i was always so intoxicated by the validation of others
                        that i forgot to validate myself,
                              i spent so much time wallowing in what could have been but never did. 
  when you write about me, do not let it be dishonest,
      do not fail to admit my exceptional proclivity for the solitary,
           or my undeveloped sense of self-esteem, 
               or my extraordinarily talent of bursting into tears at the most mundane of things.
        do not leave out my idiosyncratic tendencies,
     dedicate a page to my unbecoming habits, 
the little things about me that nobody ever had the misfortune of knowing.
   when you speak of me, do not mumble the displeasing parts and speak highly of the others – 
      for i do not wish to be remembered as a perfect stranger,
          but as a lover of a passion, 
                  the leader of the misfits. 

hard at work, or hardly working

Happy Friday!

This week has been dedicated, thorough research for my WIP (which, if you’re curious, can be found in my Google Drive or by inquiry)! When I began this project I really had no idea how much effort would need to be put into editing and research, but I don’t mind. I find it’s great to have a realistic, believable storyline, and anyway I’ve always loved the learning that comes with researching. It’s not just about the learning, either. Each of my characters is unique with their own set of skills, talents, and interests. This means that in order for them to be believable, my job as their creator is to get inside all of their heads, and essentially become the character. I think that’s what all writers do. I think in a sense, we do it to escape our own minds for a little bit, and comfort ourselves with the ability to be somebody else, in somebody else’s reality.

I know I’m not the only maladaptive daydreamer out there. It’s not like we’re a dying breed by any means. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve been sitting in class, or staring out the window on a long trip, or watching my son play with his mountains of toys, and just not been present. You know the sense of escape that comes with daydreaming? You know the excitement and longing to lose yourself inside a fantasy universe? Yeah, it’s like that. It’s why I read. It’s why I write. My life gets boring sometimes, but my characters? Their lives are always exciting (especially because I control them)!

I tend to daydream a lot. I tend to ramble a lot too, about stuff nobody but me really cares about. Bless the hearts of my non-writer friends who put up with my constant yammering about whatever’s going on in my stories. I’ve gotten so used to my characters that I talk about them as if they’re real people I hang out with and talk to (and in a way, that’s exactly what they are). Sometimes I forgot not everybody knows about them, and I have to catch myself before introducing a fictional person as “the love of my life”. It’s a struggle. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I think there’s an element of sanity-saving to writing, as well. Without the ability to write, I’d get so lost in my thoughts and my fears and my ideas that I’d go crazy. As writers, we relate to each other in a lot of ways. The need for acceptance, understanding, relatability: we get all that through other people’s work.

Words are really a wonderful thing, aren’t they? They possess the power to change lives, create lives, end lives. I want to be known as somebody who changed lives. I want to be known for my introspection, my eloquence, my kindness toward other human people.