peace out.

I guess I must have dumbass
tattooed across my forehead.
I asked you 1,242 times if you loved me
and 1,242 times you swore you did.
I said I’d never beg to be loved again,
but I guess instead I chose to settle
for 3 hours of laughter
and a 3 hour drive.
I chose someone who wouldn’t chose me.
How the fuck does that feel?
Like shit.
We circled the drain,
fuck if it wasn’t clogged the fuck up,
but we slipped down anyway.
I slipped into madness,
and you slipped into forgetfulness.
Forgot you loved me.
Forgot you missed me.
Forgot I was your fucking girlfriend.
I asked for what I needed,
and in the end what I needed,
was just a peace out, see you later,
except later was just bullshit,
just like our relationship.



Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Will 2009 percs get you high?
Instead of running,
I’m running from things.
Drowning in self pity?
Or is there something fucking wrong with me?
—how much tramadol to get me high.
Google says,
—tramadol is considered an opiate narcotic drug.
Razor blades? Or wine drunk?
Are you an alcoholic if you
are too lazy to go to the store for whiskey?
Do you fucking love me?
He says he loves me.
My brain says shut the fuck up.
—no you don’t.
It always happens like this.
It’s like clockwork.
I’m so fucking happy.
Want to get in my car and never look back.
Sometimes I’m angry,
and that brings shame
and shame feels like shit.
So does angry.
I feel so much.
Razor blades. Or wine.
Like, I’ve been here before.
I know how it goes.
I know it fades,
but right now I don’t want to fucking feel shit.
Unless it’s someone telling me how goddamn beautiful I am.
Talking to you, Cameron.
Think that’s gonna happen?
Fuck no.
Razor blades? Or wine?
I’m drinking the wine.
I’m drinking the wine.
Hey Google,
—does this make me an alcoholic?
Do you know what the serving size is for alcohol?
—Take a sip.
Can I talk to you about your substance use?
—Take a sip.
There are other
—take a sip
coping skills you can use
—take a sip
like deep breathing
—take a sip.
Razor blades.
Or wine.



I should preface this with, I just poured my 3rd glass of wine. And it’s more than the recommended serving size.

So, today.
Let me tell you about today.
It wasn’t awful. All in all, it was a pretty good day. There’s a good chance I’ll be flexed on Friday, so I’ll be off work with pandemic pay or scrubbing toilets if they reassign me. Not my favorite past time, but hell you know what – toilets are just toilets and it won’t be the first time I scrubbed one. Might be nice to be able to not feel a fucking thing all day.

Anyway, today I went to see this person who needed to do a thing for health reasons and I was told this person didn’t want to do the thing and it was really not in this persons best interest to not do the thing. I’m being purposely vague here (it’s not the wine, I swear). So, they call me in because sometimes I’m lovely and convincing (and sometimes I’m a bitch, let’s be real). Before I go in, they have me completely convinced that this person doesn’t give a fuck about their health, is a complete asshat and all around dunce.

So, I go in an expect a fight. I expect to be yelled out. Maybe told off. Maybe bitched out or at. A million negative things. So I see some other folks before I see this person so that I can kind of get in the swing of things and not have my adrenaline pumping a thousand miles an hour and then I go in.

And I was reminded why I do what I do.
Why I chose social work.
Why I love what I do.
Why even on the shittiest fucking day, I pick back up and do it again.

It is a privilege to share space with folks.

I went in with some background information – mostly negative, some helpful. The most important thing was that this person didn’t feel heard.

So I went in and I gave this person space to share their story. Their perceptions, their version of things, what they wanted and needed.

And it turns out, this person wasn’t as asshat.

This person was lovely. This person didn’t feel like they understood what was happening to them. This person felt like people didn’t give a fuck. This person felt like they were lied to. This person was overwhelmed with life changes that they didn’t have a lot of control over. This person was lonely due to Covid restrictions. This person missed their family.

Literally the only thing I did was provide space for this person to say that what they needed and felt and wanted.

And it might work.

At the end of the day, I left them with – it’s up to you, if you have questions let me know and I will answer them tomorrow.

They were so, so fucking grateful. It’s amazing. It’s absolutely fucking amazing that people are so, so grateful for someone to share space with them without judgement. With empathy. I’m not a fucking saint. This isn’t tooting my own horn. There are a thousand people that I haven’t shared that space with – unintentionally mostly, I think.

It just makes me sad, and a little angry, to think that people think this person was so many things that they weren’t.

Tomorrow, they may not make the healthiest choices…but for today, they are my why.


Just shit.

I just want to stare at the wall until the sun comes up and these feelings fade. Funny how history repeats itself. Sometimes, the end of this feels like it’s right around the corner. But just when I think I’ve had all I can take, I’ll stand there groveling, begging for more. I realized the other day that it just took a few weeks for me to fall into survival mode. Hour by hour, day by day. I thought I was in the clear – that maybe I was getting my shit together and I could just roll on through the days high on happiness.
What a fucking crock of shit.
I could feel it coming. It starts like a shadow. Did I see that? Did I really feel that? Shake it off. But then it comes, like it always does. It starts as irritation. Annoyance. Then it escalates to shame and rage and fury. It’s like there’s me – and then It. And It takes hold and it won’t let go. I can hear myself in the background, trying to rationalize while It throws things and curses and shouts. It likes to destroy things. Destruction and then shame and exhaustion. Sometimes, I can be stronger than It. I can drown It. I can choke It down. I can walk It off. But not lately.
I just want to stare into space until I wake up.
I was married for 5 years. Technically 6.
And it feels like a fucking dream.

I just want to be loved. Unconditionally. I want flowers and to be thought of. I want to know that I’m important and that someone gives a shit. I want someone who notices my absence. I want someone who says “good morning, beautiful” and the fucking cliche things. I want someone who wants to marry me and never live a day without me and fucking means it. I don’t want a lot. I don’t need material things. I can get that shit for myself. I want pictures that I didn’t take. I want letters I didn’t write. I want someone who keeps It from coming back again and again. I want to be a priority.



I am almost 29 years old.

And I am still amazed at how things that happened 15 years ago, 19 years ago, fucking childhoods ago, still bring up feelings.

Like, what the fuck. WHY DO I STILL FEEL THIS SHIT.

FUCK YOU. And you. And you.

But not you Kat, bc you’re the only one who reads this shit and I love you.



you tasted like cigars and i loved it
i wanted to fuck you in the parking lot
it was magic and sex and cigarettes,
you bought me dinner,
we talked about the future.
we laughed and we kissed,

and i still feel like shit,
like i dont want to be a fucking secret
am i?
because social media says that I am,
and it’s almost friday,
so i just have to survive one more day at work,
and im fucking drowning
because they say you don’t walk in the same river twice
but this water feels familiar
like maybe you dont want anyone to know
that i love you.
do you love me?
because i think you do,

you packed my toothbrush and
drove it 200 miles away and unpacked it again
on your bathroom sink
and my shampoos in your shower
and my razor
and im wearing your boxers
while im writing this
and you drove 4 hours to see me on christmas
so you must love me,

then why do i feel like a secret
social media, you keep me hidden
its silly, it is,

am i just crazy?
is it hormones?
ive been here before and i felt like shit
because i dont want to lose you
but i dont know how to ask you
how do i say, yes, im fucking nuts
and i want to know.
this is a shitty fucking poem,
should’ve been a blog,
but fuck.




I take a lot of selfies and post a lot of shit on Facebook and Instagram because I crave connection and some days, well fuck, I do want attention. I want to know that my presence was felt in the world. No one takes pictures of you when you’re alone, so you do it yourself and say “hey world, still fucking here” or “hey guys, shit sucks actually” or whatever it is you need to share. For as much as social media fucks with connection, it’s also a way to break up some of that loneliness. So if you’re out there posting selfies and looking for someone to see you, you’re not alone. You are brave and you are fierce.




That’s the best way I can think to describe this feeling. I feel like I’m running through water and I’m so fucking tired. I’ve cried every night for two weeks. Dirty secret: I got bed bugs. Or maybe they came with the house, I don’t fucking know. All I know is that of all the things that I can handle and deal with, this isn’t it. I’ve worked so fucking hard to finally get new furniture and a nice house and keep it clean and then this. And even though they came and treated, I know they’re in my other bedroom, but the original guys won’t believe me. My therapist doesn’t even believe me – and that stung. I want someone to get how much this fucking sucks to me. It may not be the end of the world, but it fucking feels that way right now. I’m exhausted from packing my shit up and my family’s supposed to come next weekend and all my shit’s in bags and I’m fucking depressed – and it feels like no one gets it. I’ve barely treading water at work because I don’t have the energy to do it. I just don’t have the energy to care about someone else’s shit right now and faking it is even more exhausting. I want this nightmare to be over with. I want the stupid mattress cover off my bed so I’m not sweating my balls off at night. I want to sit on my couch again – I think it’s safe, but trying to prevent the spread. I want my things back where they belong. I want my space to be clean again. I want someone to come and fucking tell me it’s all gonna be okay and hug me and feel this with me, because it sucks doing this alone.