Confessions of an Ex

Can’t come to terms with it

You left me drowning

Said I always put you down

All you did was let me down


We both had our own

Loyalty was never strong

I love the feeling of hate

Need to get you out of my head

And this is the only way


What cuts me deep is you promising to be there

All I want again is those moments where you did care

Look me in the eye

Have you ever seen a pain so deep?

You’re the only one who can make this right

But I won’t ever forget that you couldn’t even put up a fight


Left me with nothing but heartache

Fuck me again, for God’s sake

And that last line gon’ get me sent to Hell

I’d be worried if I wasn’t already in Hell


Always thought it would be different

Maybe you’d move on, but we’d still stay friends

Shouldn’t be feeling this way

Shouldn’t be struggling so much

Need you to stop holding the spotlight in my life

Can’t seem to get it through my head, that you were not right


Can’t seem to let it go

Trust me, I’ve tried

That’s a lie

I didn’t even try to forget you

Always wanted it to be me and you

I’ve been with others and never felt this way

Something about your gravity pulls me back

I only wish you could find the right thing to say –

Shit, why can’t I just remember everything you lack?


Seeing you again brought it all back

But don’t get the wrong idea

Don’t think this is about you

But this is about you

Does it astound you that I’m still about you

Get over her

She ain’t worth you

You ain’t worth me

See what I mean?

You left me dizzy

Empty and intoxicated

Sober and alone

All because of you

It always come down to you


Paper-thin skin holds my insides together

I breathe cautiously to keep my crashing thoughts from bleeding out

Do you ever hold your breath?

Star-crossed lovers with shallow cuts and scarred flesh snaking together

Can anyone see the remains of grief, etched far below the puckered, healing skin?

The best thing about you is your illusion

Lungs imprison your words

Skin covers the ugly welts left by your love

Rich, golden eyes conceal oceans of lies

Promises slipped through your fingers

I gasp as others attempt to forage through

Let them in, they tell me

But how do I bare my inner skin?


I don’t know about you, but I am feeling optimistic about the arrival of 2014. Mind you, I am naturally quite an optimistic person so this isn’t exactly news of the century. It’s weird though, how the change from one particular day to the next can be so motivating for people. Although there is no drastic change from December 31 to January 1 of a new year, many people see this as a chance to start fresh. It’s funny how we delude ourselves, convincing our minds that this year will be different, this will be the year you accomplish your goals and resolutions. I feel that the reason most people give up on their New Years resolutions is because they forget how far they’ve come. I doubt most people come up with resolutions completely randomly – they are usually thoughts that have been floating around our minds for a while or have to do with our interests. For example, if my resolution is to read 2 books a month, this would come from my passion in reading. If for some reason I can’t keep up with my initial goal during the year, I should reflect on the number of books I’ve read in my lifetime (maybe not the best example, but you get the point) and perhaps set goals over a shorter period of time (ex. Finish my current book by the end of the week), instead of putting myself down because I ended up failing at my goal.

To be frank, I am one of those people who get a rush as the New Year is brought in because I see it as another year full of opportunities and learning experiences. I wouldn’t say 2013 was my greatest year, but I can definitely say that going through my first real heartbreak taught me a lot about myself and where to place my trust. I hope to leave behind all those rough nights and focus on deeper issues within society and myself.

Now, to solidify my New Years resolutions/goals, I’m posting them here for the world to see (or all 12 of my followers):

  1. Work out 5 times a week and drink at least 3 glasses of water a day
  2. Convince my parents to let me travel to Africa this summer
  3. Read one book a month
  4. Continue writing and posting on this blog
  5. Think 2 positive thoughts before bed


My Body Is Not Yours

The hands groped my chest, pushing beneath my bra. I sat frigid, shamefully familiar with the course of his hands. Slowly they slid down my stomach, pulling my pajamas away from my hips. I pushed his hands off. I muttered a “stop” as his hands found their way to my thighs. It was happening again. He was molesting me again.


Now, the situation I have just described is one that is uncomfortably commonplace for many people around the globe. There are sickening individuals who are our neighbours, brothers, aunts and grandfathers who routinely take the innocence of children. How do they get away with it? The shame. Not shame that these molesters have for their actions, but the shame their victims feel. The first time their hands find their way to those sacred parts of your body, you feel numb. Did that really just happen? Perhaps they started off with something “small”: a slap on your bum, a casual brush of their hand shockingly close to your reproductive organs, etc. They sense your weakness – you said nothing to them about their inappropriate actions so they push it further. But they always know they are sinning, “don’t tell your mom” they say. He tells you he’s going to do something more, he promises you’ll like it, you whimper and tell him he needs to stop. You falsely tell him you will tell someone about the things he does to you. He feeds your fear, calls you out on your bluff, saying things like “you’ll be in trouble if anyone finds out” or even guilt-tripping you with “do you want to tear our family apart?”

Studying Psychology, I understand how traumatic these situations are for the victims. But there’s something they all need to know: they are simply the VICTIM and should not shoulder any blame. Don’t allow yourself to be trapped by the words of your abuser. Family members do not kill the joy of a childhood, they do not steal your purity. Being related by blood does not mean your body belongs to them. Also, do not be ashamed. You have done nothing to provoke such behavior and your body is simply designed to respond to the pleasure. Our society needs to break the stigmas and allow more open conversation about these unjust happenings.


Self-blame, feelings of powerlessness, being betrayed by someone you thought could protect you, eroticization and attachment disorders are all potential consequences of being molested, raped or abused in another way. There are emotions and memories that will haunt you forever. No child should be forced to engage in such disgusting mannerisms. Someday, I would like to see a universal death penalty for people found to have abused children. In my humble opinion, there is no place on this already overcrowded planet for scum.

Who Am I?

Do you ever feel fragmented? To your coworkers, you may seem sophisticated and intelligent. To your family, ambitious and talented. Your friends? They see you as fun and charming. But how do you see yourself? Are you a shattered mirror clumsily glued back together just so no one sees you falling apart? That’s how I feel sometimes.

All you see of me are pieces. Some days, light is reflected onto one piece more brightly and I suddenly appear a certain way. I am composed of a million memories and experiences, separated by hairline fractures. Do not ever make the mistake of assuming you know me. You are being deceived. Slivers of me have received no light for years. My projection changes everyday, but my insides only gather more stories, some with thick, crusted covers, and others only worth a few pages – but all are part of me, narrating my split trajectory. Who knows what side I may choose to share next? *shrugs*

Fanatical Love

It began with a text

Your words conjured feelings I did not know existed

Little did I know my heart beats were numbered

You fed me poison in the form of love

Seven months ago, it killed me.


I sipped the venom unknowingly

Deception laced my heart

Unaware that I had begun the countdown to my grave, I loved passionately

In full bloom, our passion was unmatched

You pollinated my emotions,

Erupted within me the desire to sin

I let you in

You seeped through the holes in my heart,

Slowly moved through my pulsating veins

Still alive.


I offhandedly struggled against your pull

Subconsciously knowing I would never survive at your hand

You calmed me, lulled me into a smooth falsity

I began to believe again

I believed you were a good guy misunderstood

Your imperfections faded as freckles do over time

Although they never completely disappeared, I found them endearing

As I weakened, so did my resolve

Nothing mattered more than you and I

You kept me alive

You were my anecdote

However, death is inevitable

It is cold and sharp

We feel it as it nears, twisting its fingers to squeeze the oxygen from your lungs

I beg you to save me

You gleefully throw me into death’s hands

It ends so soon

The poison took a year to spread through my body

And within a day, I am a corpse

Wilting and grey

I am dead.


Still so raw

Open your eyes

Remember your sins

3000 miles away but you still can’t run away

The darkness follows

Claws reaching from my waist, wistfully taking a hold of my heart

Thick blood spits from my soul

Iron scents float to my brain

Pictures of you beside me burning brightly

The pain burns me more

The soft pink of my heart is eaten by the darkness in my soul, reaching up to blind me

The thought of your hands on my body yearning to touch forbidden areas resurrects the pain of feeling soiled

If you didn’t love me, why did you make love to me?

Kiss the shadows in my bones, you stripped me of more than just clothes

You’re a ghost of my mistakes, funny, she’s a ghost of your mistakes

You still make love to the devil, still fuck with the demons that drove us apart

Should’ve known you were a fallen angel, but I was blinded by your wings, touched by your eyes that promised everything

I’ll never be in peace, but you’re damned for eternity

Free me from this pain, teach me how to let go

Pour Holy water on my soul, never let me go, you were never good enough but were the only one

Light me on fire, bring me death instead of the one I desire

Bring him suffering I beg her, poison his soul with despair, feed him false love, give him the world so he destroys you too

Because he causes beautiful destruction

Love me again

Destroy me again

My Heart is a Monster

Blood dripping down my fingers, the sweet smell lingers

You are dead

Tell me how good it feels

Better than your calloused hands caressing her soft skin as you make love

Did you forget me?

I stab the heart that should’ve only belonged to me

I rip your heart as you ripped mine

There was nothing I didn’t give to you

Sorry, but I missed you

She wasn’t meant for you

The world is red

You are dead

Tell me how good it feels

Sitting on you, kissing your cold lips, let me tell you how good it feels.

I visually enjoy you.


Today I ran across this photo, with the caption “the sad moment when a 4 year old is prettier than you”.

Where do I even begin?

My mind is completely blown by my peers. Don’t get me wrong, my “friends” routinely shock me with their drunk antics and ignorant comments, but somehow my soul shrivels up a little more when I witness their unwavering attempts to fit the standard mould of “beauty”. Let me be clear, I have nothing against men and women who groom themselves to maintain their appearance. I simply find it amusing that so many of the females in my generation have become obsessed with their looks. 

During my junior high years (about age 12-15) I was extremely self conscious. I wouldn’t have claimed to be eye-catching (at least for the right reasons) and I still don’t. However, I’ve grown comfortable in my skin (so cliche – doesn’t everyone?) and don’t feel the need to compare my looks to celebrities, my friends or children. How can I compare my zealous character to the innocence of a youngster? I feel that the more our society attempts to beautify itself, the uglier it becomes. The beauty we have is a hoax, merely masking the unhappy and disdainful citizens in this country. The greater value we place on the way we are viewed, the further we retract from our character. I’ve seen way too many girls become idolized for twerking videos,  #selfies, and the like. Where are the fanatics for girls who promote higher thinking, intellectual conversations and sharing experiences? Maybe I’ve just been surrounded by the wrong people my entire life, but unfortunately there are more of the #basicbitches than there are of the understanding individuals.

P.S. You probably noticed that this post may seem fragmented – be warned, most of my posts will be as such. I prefer to let my thoughts spill onto the screen rather than form full, concise arguments (I have enough papers due for classes to practice this skill). I may take small inspiration from something I come across and then completely take it elsewhere, this is just how my scatterbrain works.

P.P.S. If you noticed that, then this means you took the time to read my post, and for that, I greatly thank you.

How to be a Teen Writer Without Making Me Want to Punch You in the Face

As a teen blogger, I feel this is 100% relevant.

The Little Engine that Couldn't

[Disclaimer: I don’t actually want to punch anyone in the face. At the most I’ll give them a disappointed look and maybe make fun of their shoes.]

I strongly support teenage writers. Most of them are pretty cool, and with some you could just tell they’re going to become famous authors one day. Hell, some of them already are.

Still, when it comes to writing and literature, teenagers are constantly looked down upon. There are some people who immediately stop listening to what you’re saying once they find out your age. This actually happened to me once with another blogger. We were getting along just fine, having a nice conversation about Neil Gaiman, and then she found out I was fifteen and never answered back.

While I’ve never actually heard an adult say, “Oh, you’re just a teen. You can’t write,” or anything as obnoxiously condescending as that, I do…

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