My Heart Lurches Into My Throat And Lodges At The Back Like A Jagged-edge Stone. My Lungs Sprout Wings

to live without art is to live without breath.

Write like a song. Or write like somebody else. Write about anything so long as it’s not yourself, and don’t worry, because it’ll still be about you. It all came from you, the potter who could never completely buff away her fingerprints from the clay. Write vaguely, don’t show your hand. 

But you do not want to do anything anymore. You want to lie in bed and watch the crane spin around the skyscraper outside your apartment, until its lights turn off and it rests for the night. You wonder if you were perhaps not built for love. You joke that you’re stupid, but the joke isn’t funny anymore when you tell it to yourself ten times a day. You are no longer funny, you have become Pierrot, a foolish fool. 

You passed a man with his shoe untied walking to his car downtown. You almost told him the news about his laces, but you imagined he’d feel dismayed so you let him pass you by. You want to stick in people’s memories the way they do in yours, but you don’t know how. Maybe next time you walk down the street you’ll untie your shoe and imagine that somebody noticed.

my favourite sounds at 2am:

the soft buzz of the refrigerator downstairs

the steady hum of the a/c above my head

the faint rustle of the trees by my window*

*(my actual favourite sounds at 2am:

the softness off your exhale as you lay beside me

the rustling of my sheets as you turn toward me

the steady beating of your heart as you press your chest against mine.)

paused mid breakdown after THAT scene from TLOU season 2 to document the psychic and physical damage that WILL inspire my next piece. ache in the back of my throat still hasn’t subsided. i pray for every poor soul who never saw it coming, or knew it was. a tragic, haunting, brawling masterpiece that will BE 2020s television legacy.

i relapsed.

i smoked 🍃 for the first time since november of 2024.

everything got too much; the world swallowing me whole; my gut emptying to hollow; my heart beating frantically at the trapping of a vice.

so i succumbed to the relief. erased months of perseverance, strength, growth.

at least now I’ve got more to write about.

- the dangers of romanticising pain as a poet

she is literally perfect…

places i vape:

in public bathrooms

in airport corners

under my desk at work

beneath my hoodie

on mountaintops

on backyard chairs;

in my sleep, in my waking, in my dreams. beneath the clouds and the shadows. on the horizon and the stars and my aching soul.

(addiction presents as poetry, just ask bukowski)

there’s an echoing in my bones telling me to

leave this place

and not return.

i can’t decide if it’s fear or fire.

my jaw clenches

and my teeth grit

and i can’t seem to stop the rope

from slipping, fraying.

my tether is escaping me

and is it fear or fire?

i need to know

before i decide.

do i leave this place?

this purpose and pay check?

do i slink away like a fox

in the night?

where’s the rope?

hello?

where’s the light?

hello?

can you hear me?

all I’ve every wanted is to be seen. i’m sick of fighting for it- and i refuse to shrink to fit into your periphery.