To the girl who loved with all her heart and saw the world in brightest colors
Who would laugh the hardest at her own jokes
And would be moved to tears by a piece of music.

To the girl who welcomed all into her life with open arms
Who approached everything
And everyone with curiosity instead of judgement.

You will meet someone unfathomable to you
Someone who is fearful, insecure, and selfish
And you will love them.

In your mind, love does not harm
Trust can’t be broken
And you could never be abused.

You will be wrong.


I know it’s getting bad because I’m hitting a writers’ block. I don’t even want to write.

I know it’s getting bad because I’m always on edge, and scared of people. I believe they will ostracize me. They will leave me.

If I’m alone by choice, then I can’t be rejected. They can’t leave me if I’m already alone.

But withdrawing and loneliness is like putting a band-aid on a broken bone. It’s not addressing the underlying problem. It is a quick fix that actually doesn’t fix anything at all.

Days go past and I can’t help but feeling like I’m wasting my life away.

Not quite miserable and sobbing, but also not happy either. I just am. In a numb sort of way, not a mindful sort of way.

I’m starting to accept that this is getting too hard.


I am taking the memories that still overwhelm me and folding them, until they are small enough to pack away. I am acknowledging them. I am not banishing them from my mind, but putting them away in a closet in my mind so I can revisit them at a later time.

Or at least I try.

They seep through the doors and infiltrate my mind. They appear in the form of anxiety, fear, and feelings of being constantly unsafe. I try to gather them together, but like sand they fall through my fingers.

Sadness and anger…

Today I talked about the trauma openly with a therapist. Talking about the first incident was the hardest. It easier as I recounted the next incident. She pointed out there was something new she saw in me. Not quite anger, no longer fear.


Confidence in myself. In knowing that he was the one who was wrong. Confidence that only blooms out of 7 years of suffering and buried pain.

And behind the confidence, there stood sadness and anger, interlocked. Sadness for the naive girl who was manipulated, overpowered and lied to. Anger towards the boy who stole her innocence with his selfish ways.

I am forgiving myself. I never did anything wrong. This was not my fault.


I finally found someone who I love and who loves me back, and of course he lives thousands of kilometres away. This sucks. Long distance sucks. Why do these things always happen to me?


I finally found someone who I love and loves me back. It’s the kind of love I’ve always dreamed about, and despite the thousands of kilometres between us, we’re both willing to make it work. I found someone who will go through this pain with me because he loves me.

Left behind

I’m watching my friends and colleagues thrive and achieve,
I’m happy for them, I really am.
But I wish I could be there celebrating with them,
Instead of here in this hole, trying to scratch my way out.
I see them running past me
Towards the finish line
While I’m being dragged backwards by my feet.
Humiliated, pained, desperate to be free.


An invisible hand reached through my neck, cutting my breath short, pulling my consciousness away until it was completely detached from my body.

I could move, but only very slowly.

I could see, but everything was choppy, as if I was looking at a broken screen.

I could hear, but it was like I was underwater. Voices seemed far away and echoed even though they came from right in front of me.

I instructed myself to smile, to move my head every once in a while so no one would know anything was wrong. I robotically carried out these actions when I could.

I sat beside myself and saw the dead, faraway look in my eyes. The blank face. My body swayed unsteadily. I felt nauseas, as if my body was a rocking boat and I was dangling off the edge.

I somehow found my way home and fell into a long and uneasy sleep.


Disgust. Shame. Hatred. Anger. They pour into my skull with a violent, jarring crash. 

It’s like leaving a loud concert and suddenly realizing everything has gone quieter, more muffled. It’s your ears adjusting to the repeated assault of loud noise. 

I am suspended from my body, like the outline of my mind is a centimetre or two off from the outline of my figure. All perceptions are fuzzier. My vision blurs. I hear sounds as if they’re hundreds of miles away. I can’t feel my body.

I’m not sure whether I should throw up. Or scream. Or hurt myself. Maybe I’m better off like this. Maybe I should find better earmuffs. 


This is where broken people are.
This is where they wipe their tears away
And put on a new face;
A shiny, glossy mask.
They meet other
Shiny, glossy people and exchange superficial pleasantries.

This is for the people afraid of being alone;
Afraid of being marooned –
Forever controlled
By a willfully blind puppet master.
They look for another,
Fooling themselves,
Convincing themselves that they are the ones in control.
This is where the hopeful people are.

This is where the lost people are.
Passing through crowds of people,
But not really seeing a single face.
Trying to both remember and forget,
Wishing they knew now only what they knew then.
Searching for a shard of resemblance
Of a happier time.

This is where she shall drift,
Disappointed, desolate, 

My favourite colour is

Tw self harm 

Remember that blade I took? The one I wanted to take for a long time? I used it. And it was so sharp. It cut deeper than I thought it would. The blood was everywhere. Everywhere. No one else will want me now. You said you were my friend. You said you’d be there for me. And then you fucked me over. Deny as much as you want but you fucked me over. You’re a shitty friend. You’re a shitty person. It’s deeper than I thought. Oh God, it’s deeper than I thought. I can’t stop the blood. Just a light graze leaves a mark. What if I press harder? It doesn’t matter I can’t feel a thing. I can’t stop. Even though purple is usually my favorite, today, right now, it is red. Red is my favorite colour. And I want more. I love red. The colour that flows out of my body. I love it. Let me pull it out until my vision fades; until my there’s nothing more. Until I’m pale and drained. Until I’m dry and decaying. Red is so beautiful. Yet I am not. Take the beauty out of my body. Separate it from my ugly soul. Let the red stain my sheets and let it bring beauty to my surroundings. Drain it from my veins; drain it from my arteries.
17. 17. Seventeen. 10+7. Only 17 of them. Only 17 sources of beautiful red. Maybe more soon. Who knows? Who cares.