Blogposts

06/17/2017

Each morning,
it takes me ten minutes to realize that I’m awake,
that the monsters my psyche conjured cannot harm me any longer,

I take a deep breath,
and inhale a loneliness that settles in the deep pits of my lungs, 
I exhale, 

But the feeling clings to the home it has spent years renovating, 
It has made me forget that this body belongs to me. 

I get out of bed.
I take my first steps.
These hands hang at my sides,
as I try my best to recollect the mantras my therapist hammered out with me, 
The ones she hammers out of me,

I brush my teeth. 

It’s a new day.
I haven’t seen this one yet. 

I will find a way to love, 
to fill my lungs with oxygen,
a forced gentrification,

I will find a way to survive,
to thrive, 
I close my eyes. 

My heart beats softly in my chest,
I count to twenty,
I am ready.

06/07/2016

I fidget in the waiting room. 
The doctor is 13 minutes and 17 seconds late, 
I bite my nails in anticipation,
and stare at the crack in the wall,
I wonder how big it would have to get to bring the whole place down.

The scabs on my arms start bleeding again, 
absent minded scratching back on the list of habits I tried to quit,
Alongside showering with the water too hot,
And hair pulling,

(The little brown girl in the pink dress two seats down gazes at blond hair and blue eyes in magazines,
The beginnings)

The doctor calls me in,
she spends 5 minutes with me,
I didn’t need her to tell me what’s wrong,
I know what’s wrong,

I make paper planes out of my prescriptions,
I laugh,
They told us to take a chill pill, 
Now half of us are on Prozac. 

Untitled, 2016.

When they found out,
they looked at me like a museum exhibit.

all history and artefact,
cause and consequence of an artist’s anger or sadness or heartbreak,
who knows.

He did a paint-by-number on me.

One in four girls will be sexually assaulted on a college campus.
In one night,
I went from student to statistic,

But every statistic has a story.

Most people have heard the one that starts with a few drinks and ends with a rape kit.

But it begins with billboards and news feeds of people having the time of their lives, this can be you, they whisper through their dead eyes,
but you focus on their smiles.

And it continues.

One in four girls will have panic attacks on public transit because they will see the face of their nightmares board the bus and take a seat near the front, they will close their eyes and forget how to breathe until it gets off.

One in four girls will flinch when you touch their shoulders from behind because their bodies have become minefields.

One in four girls will skip class after class out of fear, out of anxiety, out of inability to get out of bed in the morning,
they will breakdown in showers, they will shiver in towels, and they will hide under their covers for just one more day.

Just one more day.

We are modern art instalments, some man’s greatest accomplishment,
they hear his side of the story and become revisionists, 
we don’t belong to ourselves anymore. 

We are pinned up for the world to be gawk at
until they read the plaque and
scoff, because “there’s nothing new,” to see here,

Moved momentarily until they move on to the next one.

12/01/2014

Do you remember when I showed you my first poem, about you?

it was filled to the brim with metaphors about the language you were fluent in,
one I proclaimed I could spend the rest of my life trying to understand, probably failing,
to understand,

Do you remember how I said I didn’t mind that?

Since then I have become all too familiar with the way you weave your words to form blankets that will hold the most broken of souls,

but you are not talented because of that. 

You are talented because somehow you can put together those same pieces in ways that make me bleed,

You believed it was worth it, as long as it was on paper.

Do you remember when you left?

My poetry ceased to be poetry, it became a shout into the void,
and all the while I hoped your voice,
would echo back. 

It did.

We were both in pieces and I realize now,
we cut ourselves on our own sharp edges and blamed each other, 

And now we both find fault in ourselves,
the fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves, 

And maybe you’ll betray me in the end,
maybe I’ll die by your hand, 
or maybe, just maybe,
we won’t be a goddamn literary trope anymore.

Two poets walk into a bar. It’s a metaphor. 

If I were immature, I would say that words are our weapon of choice, and we’re at war,

But it’s been long enough for me to know, 

We only argue because there is something here worth fighting for,

I will worry when we stop. 

Somebody to Lean On: Healing, and Accepting Help

Somebody to Lean On: Healing, and Accepting Help

When I was in Grade 2, I had to learn the lyrics to Lean on Me by Bill Withers, to perform at an assembly. Lean on me, when you’re not strong, and I’ll be your friend; I’ll help you carry on. For, it won’t be long, ’til I’m gonna need, somebody to lean on.

Looking back, the song didn’t mean much at all. Seven year olds haven’t quite seen the struggles of the world. I remember taking “leaning” in the literal sense. But it was an important message, nonetheless. I am now twenty years old, and I’m still struggling to learn that lesson.

I have always ensured that my friends and family knew that I was there for them. I was always the first to say “you can call me whenever,” and “no favour is too much to ask.” And yet, when the time came to ask for help, to accept favours, I struggled. Continue reading “Somebody to Lean On: Healing, and Accepting Help”

Something is Rotten in the State of the World: Social Media, Tragedy, and Coping With it All

Something is Rotten in the State of the World: Social Media, Tragedy, and Coping With it All

I was on vacation in Ottawa when I heard about Christina Grimmie. An artist I admired greatly had been shot, senselessly, after a concert, while she had been signing autographs for fans. It was the first thing I read that morning, shaping how I approached the rest of that day. I remember being glad I lived in Canada; although we are nowhere near perfect, gun violence does not occur anywhere near the rates at which occurs in the neighbourhoods of our southern neighbours.

I did not post anything on social media.

A few days later, I heard about the Orlando Pulse shooting. Again, first thing I read in the morning. The worst mass shooting in Modern American History, headlines read. I mourned. I mourned for days, for weeks; I could not wrap my head around the number of deaths that occurred that night, in what was supposed to be a safe space. I mourned the death of Gay Nightclubs as a safe space for the LGBT community.

I thought about writing a blog post. I refrained, retweeted some tweets whose views aligned with my own. I did not post anything else on social media. Continue reading “Something is Rotten in the State of the World: Social Media, Tragedy, and Coping With it All”

The Best Way Out is Through: A Reflection

The Best Way Out is Through: A Reflection

The university I attend is notorious for having an incredibly difficult second year. It is the year that most people consider dropping out of their programs, dropping out of university, and some even consider giving up on life entirely. It feels as if most of my memories are with friends at library tables, cramming for the next midterm (we wrote at least one every weekend for about six weeks straight in Term 2), finishing up that last assignment, or just catching up on all of the lectures we had to put aside to study for the last midterm.

I spent a lot of time at the library. I remember hearing, “This course is going to kill me,” and “I’d rather kill myself than write this exam,” often. It was common, just a part of the university student vernacular. It wasn’t serious, it was just an expression of frustration. It didn’t mean anything. No one was actually going to do it.

Except it wasn’t just an offhanded joke, for some. Continue reading “The Best Way Out is Through: A Reflection”

A Love Letter Just in Time for Valentine’s (except not really)

A Love Letter Just in Time for Valentine’s (except not really)

Here’s my contribution to the declarations of love through clichéd poems that are no doubt circulating on the internet today:

Roses are red,
violets are blue,
my depression makes me feel like I don’t deserved to be loved by anyone,
let alone you.

Depressing? I apologize. Continue reading “A Love Letter Just in Time for Valentine’s (except not really)”

Recovery (rather, a confession that there was something from which to recover)

Recovery (rather, a confession that there was something from which to recover)

Content warning: discussions of depression and suicide

I want to thank each and every one of you for reading this blog. The number of people who have approached me to tell me that they enjoy reading my work is higher than I could have fathomed when I started this, and I am so grateful.

I’ve also had a number of people ask me why I haven’t written anything lately. I’ve laughed, I’ve used the, “Oh, school is so busy,” excuse. The “I just haven’t had time to write,” excuse. Truth is, I had all the time in the world. I just chose to spend it in my own head.

I wanted to share something that I wrote back in November. I was hesitant to share it back then; I wasn’t ready. I was actually absolutely terrified. But I want to share this, now. Continue reading “Recovery (rather, a confession that there was something from which to recover)”

If you’re reading this, it’s never too late.

If you’re reading this, it’s never too late.

This is a post that has been festering in a corner of my brain for a while. Every time I sat down to write it, the time didn’t feel right; I didn’t feel ready. Today, a friend came to me, and we talked a little bit about stuff that pertains to this post, and..all of a sudden, I wanted to write this post, I needed to write this post, and get it out for people to read, as soon as possible. I’m going to cover a few topics, all of which are very important to me personally. Bear with me. Continue reading “If you’re reading this, it’s never too late.”