we joined hands as if to pray before lacing our fingers together and thrusting them to the sky
i feel sweat drip down my neck like a baptism and when the lights go out, i’ve been reborn
i remember how we sang into hairbrushes and now we can scream into his mic as he held it out to the crowd
tears flowing like confetti falling from the sky
our throats are raw and our backs ache and our makeup is smudged but we’re happy
god, we’re so fucking happy
and isn’t that what it’s all about?
we’ve been biblically saved by something no one can touch
not just because it’s out of reach but because it’s so much bigger than we could ever dream to be
and we’re all pieces of it
being a part of something bigger than you ever will be
but knowing that the space you occupy in this is just as instrumental as anyone else’s
is truly something holy
(cc, 23)
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jessie paege says she doesn't want to romanticize recovery
and they're right
recovery isn't always smiles and sunshine
in fact, sometimes recovery is shit
and being sick is so much easier
what's familiar is almost familial
and being stagnant is safe
sometimes
i hate recovery
more than i hate that i'm a person who needs to recover in the first place
and i think that right there is the hardest -
maybe even the worst -
part of recovery;
it's heartache
until a heart attack
unless you choose to restart your own heart
with your own two hands
because no one else can do it for you
it's never like the movies or the books
it is uniquely yours
and only you can jump start it into life
the same way only you can save your own life
(cc, 23)
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the boy is a bird
a bird with a broken wing
still determined to fly
to fly into the sun
the boy is the sun
the boy burns bright
no one can look at him
no one can really see him
the boy doesn’t want to be seen
wants to hide in the shadows
wants to disappear like a father
wants to hide while he hurts
the boy hurts
a heavy kind of hurt
an invisible kind of hurt
the boy hurts
and hurts
and hurt
and hurts
like a bird with a broken wing
like a sun that can’t shine
like a father that leaves
(cc, 23)
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i know my mother loves me because every morning i wake up, there’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, even on the days where she isn’t having any / because i wake up to text after text, videos and pictures and links, all to say that she thought of me while i was sleeping / because i grew up believing in the tooth fairy and santa claus / because she pulls me out of bed to see the sky at sunset at the first hint of hue in the clouds / because when all i want to do is dig my heels into the earth and resist any movement, she pushes me forward — which is not to say that she wants me to pretend that i’m not hurting, but that she doesn’t want the hurt to hold me back / because i grew up to be empathetic and silly and creative just like she is / just like she made me to be.
(cc, 23)
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can you see right through me? (after taylor swift)
i am not above begging to be seen
when every scream that erupts from my throat
comes out like a whisper
a gentle rustling of leaves in the wind’s wake
i, too, am only seen if someone bothers to look at me
can anyone bother to look at me?
i am here
i am here
i am a caricature of a person who knows what to do and what to say — don’t you see?
i am a slab of clay taking shape of whatever i’m needed to be — don’t you see?
i am no more myself than i am everyone else — don’t you see
that maybe there’s nothing to see?
maybe i am only as visible as i am present
but i have not been present since i first heard the my thoughts
as something more than static or background noise
the tunnel inside my mind grows darker around the edges
the louder my thoughts get
and i don’t even realize how deep in the tunnel i am
until someone waves a hand in front of my face, asking
“are you there?”
(cc, 23)
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THE KEY TO STICKING AROUND
is remembering you don't have to promise anyone five more years, but try promising yourself five more minutes. just five minutes. because in five minutes you can listen to a song you can't remember the last time you heard, and
the key to sticking around is realizing that you still remember every single word.
the key to sticking around pre-ordering your favorite author's next book.
the key to sticking around is proofreading, because typos cause misunderstandings and you've been misunderstood for far too long so why not take a moment to make sure there's nothing in the lines to read between? you can't rewrite who you are but
the key to sticking around is remembering you can still control your story.
the key to sticking around is sitting on your hands because the only crescents you should see are the phases of the moon at night.
they key to sticking around is remembering that right here, right now, may not be your favorite season - but that doesn't mean it isn't coming. you just have to wait a little while longer. and i know, i know, waiting is the hardest part but every 'x' through a square is another day closer to changing the calendar. all you have to do is stick around.
(cc, 23)
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grief is a beast
and i am the neck
it sunk its teeth into
i am the body
it tore its claws through
i am the victim of its recent crimes
it tears through what was once
a peaceful village
leaving carnage in its wake
though the town raised their
pitchforks and held fire in hand
there was no running grief out of town
the beast roared and raged
and here i am, the remnants
of its rampage:
bloodied
and bruised
but
still breathing
(cc, 23)
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eight haikus for gilbery baker, cc 23
(inspired by mitrid)
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yall heard bobby ;)
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a woman’s rage is often bleached; when she sees red, the world sees pink. because what is a woman’s rage if not a cat being declawed? when she tries to scratch, it's adorable the way her paws stretch with the desire to slice skin and all that comes of her rage is a softened blow. a joke that doesn’t land. because a woman’s rage is a punchline. when she sheds tears of anger the audience cries with laughter. they point and jeer as if her choler is comical. as if the blood that pours from her throat with every scream is simply just corn syrup. a woman’s rage stains every inch of skin it touches. every piece of furniture it lands on. a woman’s rage is a crime scene, and she is the star witness and the prosecutor all at once. and when her rage is on trial, she is the jury of her peers. when the crack of a gavel lands like a thunderstorm we’re reminded that a woman’s rage is like lightning; seen but not heard. blinding and captivating. a man’s rage is thunder — it will scare you. but a woman’s rage could kill you.
(cc, 2023)
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back in august 2020, i got the idea to write, in depth, about something i hadn’t really written about before: my recovery from an eating disorder. two years, eight months, and one hundred and five pages later and my little passion project is no longer just mine. now, it’s out in the world for you to read 🦋
if you’re looking for an honest recollection of what it’s like to recover from (but still live with) an eating disorder, then this book is for you! i poured my heart into each and every poem and my hope is that it finds a home in someone the way it’s found a home in me 🩵
so happy to say y’all can finally check out SKELETON!!
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THE STRAIGHTEST THING I’VE EVER DONE
is allow a girl to slide her hands
down the front of my pants
and think it still meant that
i was just “one hell of an ally”
her hand held my breast
while i held onto my heterosexuality
i gripped it like sheets
fists tight
knuckles white
all the while
my back arched away from the
familiarity
of what i believed to be true about myself
but still found myself
coming down into it
there was nothing remotely straight
about my high school years
i spent late nights playing truth or dare
just so i could kiss a pretty girl
without saying i wanted to kiss a pretty girl
sleepovers were less about sleeping
and more about waiting until
we were home alone
(and the few times we couldn’t wait)
for curiosity to eat the cat
curious
that’s what we called it
we just wanted to know what it was like
it didn’t mean anything
it didn’t have to mean anything
sometimes
i can still feel her nails on my back
i don’t even have to try too hard
to remember
just like i can still remember
how convinced i was
that i wasn’t even the slightest bit
not-straight
it’s funny looking back now
the flags weren’t red or green
but rainbow all along
(cc, 2023)
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friendship
is a hymn
in a stained glass
room
the prayer
i never spoke
aloud
but was still
answered
anyway
friendship
is the reason
i got down
on my knees
and what
lifted me
up again
friendship
is patient
and kind
and greedy
and gluttonous
and the cloth
over my nose
as i go
underwater
underwater
underwater
friendship
is a hymn
i know by
heart
but never
learned
the words to
(cc, 2023)
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the weenkd sang "die for you" and halsey sang "die 4 me" and joji sang "die for you"
but i want you to live for me. if you love me,
stay alive so i don't have to search for you in
the breeze that flows through the trees or
the sunlight that breaks through the clouds.
stay alive so i can tell stories that don't have a
final chapter - at least, not yet. if you love me,
then don't die for me. dying is easy; living is a
war and i want you to fight. living is a poem
that none of the greats have yet to capture in
ink but you're writing sonnet after sonnet with
every breath you take. living is a serenade and i
want to listen to your song day in and day out. i
don't want you to die for me because i love you
too much to lose you.
(cc, 2023)
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hi loves!! i'm currently looking for potential readers who're interested in receiving an early copy of "skeleton" in exchange for an honest review! if this is something you think you'd be interested in, please check out my google form for more information!! :)
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