Posted in Poetry


I’ve built myself a pedestal, so I can stand tall and high

It’s mostly made up of stories,

(Though there’s also some pretty lies).

It was easy to climb it and even more to look down from.

See, the words help you drown out sounds,

people and places; memories of things that hurt.


So that when you look down,

you can only see the memories

Of the time you created the lie.

There’s no way you’ll get hurt up there,

Words are yours to take, no one can hurt you

If you’re standing high up in the air.


But words make us prisoners

And sometimes they’re enough to take us down.

Just tell me a word,

Just one word.


And if that seems impossible a simple sentence will do,

And drag me down from my ankles to the cold reality of the ground

Remind me in one sentence what it means to survive

Gag me with new words and teach me their meaning

Show me the pedestal was worthless.

Show me the truth in human kindness.


Posted in Poetry

Bad Days

When I was younger,

I used to call the days my depression took me under its spell

“The dark days”.

It was a phrase I read somewhere

and it seemed to fit.


I was having a dark day,

I was shrouded in darkness,

but the darkness was warm,



It whispered things in my ear

that made me feel like I was home.

Oh, how I hated the dark days.

(Oh, but how I loved them).


When I grew up,

I started calling them

“Bad Days”.

I knew that “bad” was just another word for

“Yeah, I’m fine”

and that the trembling in my hands would stop



I used “bad” the way other people used “sunny”.

The description of a state obvious to anyone looking.

But no one was looking.


I call them “Shit Days” now.

“I’m having a shit day.”

It sounds both like a joke and an exclamation mark.


The darkness doesn’t seem inviting anymore,

it still tries to hold me,

but those arms,

made of darkness that is me but also something else,

are suffocating me.


On Shit Days I’m tired and moody,

ready to fight the world

but maybe also cry?

A little?


On Shit Days I want nothing more than to be swallowed

consumed by the stifling arms of the darkness that is me,

and the darkness that is other.

I long for a home long gone,

the memory of comfort the darkness used to bring.


But the home is nothing now,

The darkness is no longer my friends.

And the arms, that hold and harm and live,

brand me with a touch of darkness more alien than myself.


I am mostly a prisoner of the darkness when we’re together.

The funny thing is, we always are.


Posted in Personal Blogging

Keeping Track

Hello again!

(Do not be fooled, the fact that I’m writing today doesn’t mean this will be a daily thing… it’s just that I haven’t quite figured out a schedule for these)

So, as I mentioned in my previous and first post, I am shit at keeping track of things. I have a terrible memory for important things (but excellent for the things that don’t count. To quote Oddysseus in Madeline Miller’s The Song of Achilles (2011) “Useless information is my curse, I’m afraid.” (147)

NOTE: Four years of college have made me terrified of misquoting and being accused of plagiarism.

Continue reading “Keeping Track”