I Don’t Want To Be The Next Rupi Kaur Or Trista Mateer. I Want To Be The First Lila Kane.

places i vape:

in public bathrooms

in airport corners

under my desk at work

beneath my hoodie

on mountaintops

on backyard chairs;

in my sleep, in my waking, in my dreams. beneath the clouds and the shadows. on the horizon and the stars and my aching soul.

(addiction presents as poetry, just ask bukowski)

Joy Sullivan, “Want", Instructions for Traveling West

i relapsed.

i smoked 🍃 for the first time since november of 2024.

everything got too much; the world swallowing me whole; my gut emptying to hollow; my heart beating frantically at the trapping of a vice.

so i succumbed to the relief. erased months of perseverance, strength, growth.

at least now I’ve got more to write about.

- the dangers of romanticising pain as a poet

Dead Poets Society

-1989

i was going through boxes of books and old clothes when i found the scarf you lent me.

we were going to the football and it was cold and i didn’t bring a jacket, so you lent me your scarf- your favourite team scarf.

how is it possible for a scarf to claw its way into my chest and stop my heart from beating? it’s not? well, it’s happening. it’s possible.

i almost forgot what it was like to be 16, and to love my best friend with my whole heart- my best friend who secretly loved me a little too much;

i almost forgot what it was like at 18 to kiss you in the dead of night and dismiss you in the morning;

i almost forgot how entwined we once were, how many libraries i could fill with every story and aching that passed between us.

staring at your scarf, now dusted by 10 years, i can’t think of anything else.

my favourite sounds at 2am:

the soft buzz of the refrigerator downstairs

the steady hum of the a/c above my head

the faint rustle of the trees by my window*

*(my actual favourite sounds at 2am:

the softness off your exhale as you lay beside me

the rustling of my sheets as you turn toward me

the steady beating of your heart as you press your chest against mine.)

Emily Dickinson, from her poem titled "1188," featured in The Emergency Poet

defines you? no.

shapes you? moulds you? becomes you? yes.

our identity is malleable as fuck. our experiences warp it day in and out. the good and the bad.

and this is not to invalidate you: your traumas are real, stifling, and the consequences echo.

but never forget they’re not what’s written under “you” in the dictionary.

they’re just littered throughout your wiki.

“your trauma doesn’t define you” no actually it does. it dictates every aspect of my shitty life.

my heart lurches into my throat and lodges at the back like a jagged-edge stone. my lungs sprout wings and fly away.

the aching of their absence in my chest is heavy, despite my rib cage housing hollow. my skin jumps and begs to rip free.

i wake, and it is not a dream. my body is running from me, yet my mind will not free itself- it delights in it's cranial prison.

i wake, and your body is still rotting 6 feet under, your heart and lungs and skin and mind no more- but i cannot gift mine.

a child’s disclosure

i took notes around the corner

from the chainsaw’s roar,

while the lock was wrenched off

by its teeth.

and i wrote about the fear,

and the tears,

and the injustice of it all.

no safe space to call—

not home,

not him.

i watched puffy eyes,

matted hair,

tremors—

and i thought and thought.

but all i could do was take notes

around the corner

from the chainsaw’s roar,

while the lock was wrenched off

by its teeth.