I clench my fists, trying to stop the shaking; trying to stop the anger.

Anger. It consumes me of late. Courses through my veins, and I want to bleed it out of myself.

I want to let it go. I want to move on. Yet–I see faces that taunt me and I break down into tears.

I look at my body, and feel tainted. I tear it apart.

I want to scream at the top of my lungs and run as long as I can. I want my lungs to burn and for my feet to bleed.



Dear Someone XXXVI

Dear Someone,

I want a new main character in young adult fiction.

One who doesn’t fall in love.

One who deals with bullies, and the worst bully is herself.

She tries to be everything everyone wants her to be, and crumbles more and more ever day.

You see it throughout the book. Her thought process.

She starts on top. Yet–page by page, negative connotations and anxiety, take you on the journey of her mind.

And, by the end she’s sitting in the ruins of her life.

She wonders how she got her, and she wants to blame everyone else.

But–you know.

It was her.











no one cared then, & everyone cares now.

i told people. i told a lot of people.

and, they told me that this would pass.

that i was complaining.


i shut up.

i hid it in journals.

i became reclusive.

you never say anything anymore.

tell me what’s going on…


because, all i got was,

dramatic. you’re just trying to weird. that’s just you being shy.


now it’s too late, isn’t it?

you should’ve all listened.

i was struggling. i was hurting. i was confused.

no one cared then.

i don’t need your sympathy now.













about me.

dear someone,

i got rid of my about page, so i thought i might as well.

(how to even start…?)

i love winona ryder, she is everything i want to be. (plus, i want to date christian slater (from heathers) good lord, the leather trench coat and gold hoop were attractive.)

i’m kind of a poet, kind of not. i used to write better, now i use it as a source of comfort, and my words paint a myriad of pain. i don’t think self-hate and trauma is poetry.

i love studying the human mind, but i hate psychologists (how ironic…)

i have friends, but for the most part my best friend is myself. i keep my thoughts to myself. i talk to myself.

i hide under blankets of self depreciatory humor and anxiety.

boys are overrated. not that i dislike them, but i don’t enjoy them either.

girls are dramatic. i’m not into gossip and shopping.

i prefer coffee friends. the ones you call at three a.m., talk about the world with, who you can tell all your thoughts to, because they understand. (granted, i only have three of these.)

only seventeen, and i hate life. no, correction, i don’t know how to love life anymore. i feel like the main character in, this is side of paradise by f. scott fitzgerald. tired of human tendencies to sin and then to hide under layers of frivolous spending and partying. aren’t we all a victim of that, though?

speaking of books, i love them. i read mostly classics. they seem to have more depth. new books don’t have the same haunting effect on my soul (excluding a few…) i also enjoy reading history textbooks, biographies, and philosophies.

i believe knowledge is one of the most vital part of becoming the best person you can be. i strive to always learn and be open-minded.









being human is getting too complicated.

I’ll never understand people.

We break, fight, gossip, and hurt each other.

We throw our sticks, stones, and words.

We fall in love, we have best friends, we make promises.

We fall out of love, we lose our best friends, we break our promises.

And, it’s by choice.

I sometimes can’t sleep because I’m haunted by the way I’ve acted in the past…

I could’ve forgiven him sooner,

not listened to him,

been a better granddaughter,

not have harbored bitterness towards her,

pushed them away…

I can’t handle it. Do you hear me? I pass all these people, and I miss them.

I think about these people, and I think if only they had lived longer…if only if I had understood…

And, there’s things I think I will never understand, or forgive. Trauma after trauma,  they make me sick. But–those people will never apologize, and you have to live with that as well.

I don’t want to process it anymore. I don’t want to talk. I just want to shut myself in a dark room and die there.

I can’t hurt anyone there.

No one can hurt me there.

Except myself.

Being human is getting too complicated. 






he touches my back

whispers in my ear

touches my thigh,

says since we’re family,

he can do whatever he wants

when I asked him to stop


told I wasn’t skinny enough,

told I was psycho,

told I was a mute,

catcalled and made fun of

never was the pretty girl

never was the untouchable girl



the clique doesn’t accept

a new presence,

even if it’s been there for ages

they told me to go away,

laughed in my face.


afraid to leave the house;

afraid to be alone

he’s everywhere, he’s watching

he knows everything

he could ruin me in a moment

I close the blinds tighter


and, everyone asks me

why I don’t like to be touched

why I hate superficial girls and guys

and I just shrug

they tell me to not be so guarded;

and I just nod, not really listening



so, I hold a razor in the shower

and I think of about dying

I think of him, him, and him;

of her, her, and her

and I could blame all of them

but, I’m to blame, aren’t I?