bang me from the back!

i’ve stopped living to be contrary—

or at least that’s what i tell myself

always too jaded to be fun

but hey— maybe you could help

i used to blow smoke off balconies

cursing you out under my breath

like i was ever any better—

ribbons on my wrist addressed to death

i thought bleeding made my voice louder

prescriptions would shatter my nuanced view

instead i grew up overnight

& cast a softer light on you

i used to scream into my pillow when you left

& now i just roll my eyes & laugh

you’ll figure it out one day

but for now just bang me from the back


hero complex barbie

blood, sweat & tears

just for a chance at a chance

begging for a better break

evolving caffeine romance

goddamn neurotic

psycho workaholic

(but no one will have pushed like i did).

overthinking like i’m getting hourly

i kinda feel like I deserved more

& maybe I tore up my own life

but i’ll be there to save yours

heavy drinking

i’m fucking sinking

(you’ve ruined yourself, kid).

two years later

i’m still bleeding on my car seats

over a version of myself

who i’ll never even meet

so call me your little masochist

here’s to never getting over shit

(& stumbling home alone every night).

had everything i wanted

& i threw it all away

just so i could turn the tables

& be the one to save the day

hero complex barbie

i’m sorry, i’m not sorry

(cheers to the other side of flashing lights).


crime scenes.

it was summer in california

i thought you’d call but you never did

cocaine nosebleeds

& bruised knees

you’re all on your own, kid.

i watched my college roommates’

parents help them move in

i’m alone dragging boxes upstairs

new clothes & dyeing my hair

reinventing the reinvention again.

when he hit me i didn’t flinch

cuz you always said “tough love”

& when he screamed he was going to kill me

you were all i could think of

you were always begging me to change

& i promise i really did try

bleeding all over my car seats

& you had the nerve to ask why

you’re not sorry for anything

& i guess neither am i

so no more crime scenes

& my hands are clean

i don’t owe you goodbye.


metal nostalgia

there’s some kind of dissonance 

constantly clamoring in my head

a love letter between my thighs

violent harmonies inside bed

“you’re a survivor,” they tell me

“you’re endurant, you’re strong”

but i see you in sex dreams

would that prove them all wrong?

old enough to understand the forbidden

too young to properly place the guilt

too naive to jump legal fences

but i knew the trap that you built

“you always remember your first time,”

remember when your innocence went south?

i do– in the crush of metal nostalgia

waking up to blood in my mouth


the apathetic magician

i still see you almost every weekend,

if i’m surprised then i shouldn’t be

rough sex like you never left

then you talk about how great your life is without me

& i know you’ll never come around

all this knocking me down

& then acting innocent

answers that are never found

i dropped ten pounds

somewhere in wondering what you meant 

i still wait up staring at my phone

hoping you’ll call so i can ignore you

i know the shit you tell your friends

– what if i told them the things that you do?

people tell me it’s not about blame

that’s all just a game

i said i wouldn’t play again

but you never listen

& always wind up the victim

if i stopped saying sorry, what then?

i still say that “i wish you nothing but the best”

god knows that’s never been true

i kind of wish you’d drop dead

or that something horrible happens to you

i never learned how to get over shit

or how to handle all of it

i’m still stuck in the middle of every transition

maybe i just was born without that ability 

anything that hurts might as well kill me

as you make me disappear– the apathetic magician


stupid people are happier.

i did blow off a girl’s chest at the club

fucked a guy in his brand new benz

& slammed back shots in a dive bar

just to do all of it over again

& i know what you’re saying: “you’re looking pretty rough”

but i’ll never go home alone again

— nothing is ever enough

i sleep through the whole day

trying to forget other people exist

a hung up head case at just twenty

wondering what i’ve already missed

& i know everyone’s saying: “you need to snap out of it kid”

but i’m still mulling over the pieces

of whatever i did

cluelessly alone with trust issues

just where did i go wrong

the sewing kit my mom gave me as a kid

i use to unclog my bong

& i know even my friends are saying “i feel bad for her”

so i get high out of my mind every night

–stupid people are happier


my boyfriend is a meliorist

you’ve always illuminated halos

but angels only exist inside of dreams

or patterning rose-stained glass

mine was all shattered at thirteen

go on, call me depressingly pretentious

for proclaiming death only an off switch

optimism is a prayer in the foxhole

or perhaps i’m just a nihilistic bitch

maybe it’s that i’m just jealous

choked by one night stands and vodka shots

but they, if there is some kind of hope

i’d give you the rest of what i’ve got


i’m pretty sure i fucked a rock star.

i’m pretty sure i fucked a rock star

smashing shots & guitars

that wicked smile got the better of me,

he told me i look like a pop star

lip gloss & a taste for fast cars

blame it on the drugs & hennessy.

i don’t really believe in chance

& i sure as hell don’t think we stand one

but when you offer me another dance

— we’ve only got so long being this young.

i’m pretty sure i fucked a rock star

tabletop concerts at the bar

tattooed voice laughing his way up my skirt,

die young but not before you get far

grew up until I fit my scars

i made him promise this would hurt.

shut up & light another cigarette,

guess i was jaded from the first breath

& even though i know we just met

i swear i’d follow you until death.


save me from the bathroom counter!

all your thoughts are impositions

& so is what you feel,

nosebleeds from pills he hasn’t noticed

— or maybe it just isn’t a big deal

so here’s to getting drunk & texting people you’d forgotten

— & other inebriated, stupid things to do–

hey, what can i say kid?

twenty looks good on you.

— wolfcalls

i’ve been doing this since i was twelve

& the truth is

i am terrifyingly, horrendously boring

a walking cliche

a college drop-out, depressed & lonely,

a wannabe writer, with cities in her eyes

& if i’m being honest

i miss before i was so intensely clueless

i miss hopeless naivety–

oh god, I’m being a cliche again.

self-awareness is brutal;

relentlessly killing off imagination,

the slow gray death of reality.

ah. let me guess.

now i’m being pretentious.

because it’s impossible to write something interesting

unless you are an interesting person

& very few things can cure you of

the curse of boring.

& who am i to be a self-proclaimed version of special.

so to be a writer is really to be a never-ending cycle

of second guessing & self hate.


& to think…

i asked for this.