put up your hands

I quit therapy and writing. My life kept moving past the point that I wanted things to change.

Things changed when I lost my best friend. She wasn't even that, she was a placeholder, a notion that I could hold onto, a bookmark on the moment in my life that I one day hoped to come back to. I trusted in a complete stranger, and she trusted me back. We might have gone on to become great friends, but I told myself that I could pause my life, retreat into my own world, and when I was ready it would be there again.

It has been three years since I hit pause. I keep waiting to resume that life that I had, I keep trying to recreate it. Was I honestly happier in that moment? Maybe there is some irretrievable naivete that made my life seem more perfect, when I didn't know for a fact that my mind was flawed and that I would have to try so much harder for the rest of my life.

Life keeps moving within that "pause". I thought I had lost a father, running out of taxi cabs at night and doing my best to not hear my name being called as I rushed to the front door. Instead my mom was running out of my house in the middle of the night, meeting him at the cemetery like teenage lovers, crying about the end of the world in Shakespearean dramatic fashion.

I left my home recently, I packed a bag full of every book I couldn't part and grabbed all the cash I had, I showed up to a friend's house and stayed in a dark corner in the basement where little insects bit me over and over again, leaving little polka dot scars all over my skin. My habit of being inconsistent with medication led to a thunderous pounding in my head and I was screaming all over Seattle.

In its own way, this year has been nothing but moving in violent, anti-climatic circles, a never-ending exercise in emotional tumult and disappointing endings.

I will be moving into my own apartment in October. I may never be able to un-pause my life and resume it at the exact point that I left off, but I am no longer willing to wait for the perfect moment to accept the reality of my life the way it is.


till we ghosts

I've kept this blog for too many years. I hope that retiring these old poems and posts may be similar to cutting one's hair or donating the majority of your belongings. The process feels transformative and cleansing, the immediate moment afterwards is one filled with awkward self doubt. My only hope is that it finally gives me room to start writing about the rest of my life, rather than dwelling on moments in my past.


your half smile doesn't scare me anymore

I don't even know where I am supposed to begin. Do I start with the antidepressants, or do I start with the fact that I haven't been home since Sunday afternoon? Just struggling to find a place to sleep or getting a shower or anything really. Literally everything that I do on a day to day basis suddenly requires an incredible amount of forethought and planning.

But anyways, this blog is coming to you from the basement of a friend's house. More news to come from the girl that is officially homeless.


i felt your shape

I dig my fingers into my forearm and press my lips together tightly. Was I always this numb?

These days, I am perpetually cold, I carry it under my skin six inches deep. These days, I am medicated, my mind buzzes slightly and then shuts down. These days, my words sink into my stomach, I dissolve them with diet Coke until not even the letters that once composed my real thoughts are left.

The things that I refuse to say flood my bloodstream with guilt and shame, until I can't even manage a simple conversation or sustained eye contact, they collect like platelets and clog my veins. I could conceivably take control of this, I could be better than I am at this moment, but instead I wait for the cardiac arrest.

It's only when I hit rock bottom that I know which direction to move.


set you off

By far, what reminds me I have this blog the most is not the actual people that read it but all the spam comments I seem to get. Last night I received 10 emails alone. Let me know if you need something called "sac burberry".


maiiim myyy biiitch

I swallowed my words, I bit my tongue. I waited til the edge wasn't so sharp, to the point that it came through the other side, the way everything goes full circle, looping back to the beginning when you wish things would be linear.

Just be positive.

I put these words in my pocket, along with two nickels, the key to the store and my bus card. They dissolve in my mouth and I am empty again.
The babes open their sleepy eyes in the glare of the headlight before the car speeds up and they are asleep again. You never saw your father as a smoker, a drinker, a man that would act as if he might roll over a car full of children, but this is a man that let go of the handlebars because he felt constantly "threatened" by his own family.

Be friendlier, because he might spend more money on you.

If it weren't for parents, people might actually grow up believing in love, that money can't buy happiness, even God.