here’s the thing,
and i know it’s kind of fucked up,
but sometimes i pretend,
like i’m coming home to you,
and i pretend my grandma’s not dead,
and that it’s still two thousand something,
i can’t settle on a year though,
because i’m not sure when things
completely went to shit.



don’t bother to sew yourself shut,
just stand there, hold yourself open
let them see your beating heart
vulnerable doesn’t mean broken.

change the narrative of sorrow
as it turns out, happiness is something
that you can borrow.
you can share it.

like a candle and a flame,
your light doesn’t need to be extinguished
share it, no shame.
you’re beautiful even when you’re bleeding.


anxious bitch.

my brain is screaming at me to run,
to get the fuck out,
telling my heart to race,
making my insides feel like
some kind of shit soup
but i can’t allow myself
to fall into that trap.
i have things to do
i have people who depend on me
to keep my shit together.
so i will smile appropriately,
i will write shitty poems
and eat m and-fucking m’s
and keep my shit together.
fuck you, anxiety.



the spaces inside me rearrange themselves
over and over and over and over
never settling, never fitting, never ending
a puzzle that wasn’t printed right.
3 to 4 to 7 to 8 to 5 to 3 to 7.
run. run. run. run. stay.
body still, face blank as a clean slate
brain is going. going. going.
heart is racing. pacing.
doesn’t anyone else find it odd
to see an elephant sitting on my chest
or is it just me? am i crazy? you don’t see it?
the spaces inside me rearrange themselves
opening. closing. spinning.
tilt-a-whirl inside my fucking soul.
white trash in a vacuum,
around. around. around. dirty.
i wish i could put these pieces on pause.
the spaces inside me rearrange themselves.
3 to 4 to 7 to 8 to 5 to 3 to 7.