(an excerpt of a book i’ll never write): the mermaid



She washed up on our beach just like any other dead thing or piece of flotsam. She was  small and gray and cold, and looked like she might crumble like a sandcastle if you touched her. Her black hair was sort of matted, smashed under her head, and patches of it were missing. Her throat was slit with something jagged, but the wound was faded, a gash washed out by the saltwater. From a first glance, she looked like she’d been dead a week, but you could never tell with the sea. Sometimes the death it spat out was bloated like gray balloons, and sometimes it was perfectly preserved, beasts sleeping on sand with bruised eyes and a tendency of silence.

“I’ll be damned,” Martha mutters from next to me. She drops her cigarette and grinds it into the sand. The embers die instantly.

She’s not wearing a shirt. Not Martha, I mean, the thing at our feet. She’s not wearing anything, actually, but she’s covered waist down by faded gray scales. They reflect the clouds, shining dully, and some are missing or half torn off by God knows what. Pale burn marks slice across her bare stomach. They are the same color as the slash on her neck.

I shiver.

“I should…call someone,” Martha says from beside me. Who? I want to ask, but don’t, because I don’t like acknowledging the fact that we have nobody to call.

I cross my arms. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” I say instead, softly.

She turns her leathery head and stares at me. “Iris, are you seeing what I am?”

“Yes.” For some reason it’s not scaring me, though.

“Then I don’t understand why I shouldn’t–this thing–it’s– a–a–” Her voice is breaking. She doesn’t want to say the word.

“She’s dead, is what she is,” I say quietly. I uncross my arms and pick up a pretty piece of driftwood by my foot. “See?” I poke her in the shoulder with it.

Martha and I are used to dead things. Seals. Fish. People. The occasional body part, wrapped up tight in a black trash bag. We give the body parts and people a burial. No use in calling the police. Around here, secrets are buried instead of gossipped about. Might not make sense, but that’s the way it’s always been for us, for the other islanders.

But this, this is something else. Martha obviously knows it, too.

Martha grabs the driftwood out of my hands, dropping her remaining pack of cigarettes and her bucket of jetsam. She prods at the creature’s waist, tracing the line between dead person and dead fish.

“I don’t understand…” she says to me, dropping the driftwood. I don’t pick it up. It feels contaminated.

“Mermaid,” I say for her.

“Mermaid,” she parrots back.

Mermaid, mermaid, mermaid. A carved mermaid sits on my windowsill back at the house, faced towards the ocean. She’s made of driftwood and has a blue tail. She’s wrapped in a tiny blanket I made as a child, when I thought warmth was essential for survival. (It’s not). She’s the oldest thing I remember, other than Martha.

“What do we do with…it, then, if we aren’t going to get help?” Martha asks me. She seems to have regained her voice.

I brush some hair out of my eyes. The wind has picked up. We don’t need help. We never have.

“Bury her,” I say, or something like that, I can’t tell over the sound of the suddenly wild air and sea.

🙂 thanks for reading…feedback is appreciated


writing by ~me~: candyland


popsicles and front stoops, mid july, jean shorts frayed at the edges. we picked at the lose strings

we picked at the fabric of our lives and lies

summer between sixth and seventh grade and we talked about boys cause we thought we were straight

and katy perry kicked her high heeled boot at our faces. we were scared so we listened to her on the radio

we longed for something greater

freckles and pseudo tans. tampons and target bras

i am we are still trapped in that moment

heartbeats linking us together. trapped in shaking cages

piled on the back of a dusty ass pickup truck

driving us from girlhood to candyland.

style+culture: fall style ideas??

just a few ideas:

  1. VELVET. try a velvet dress, maybe in a darker color. layer it over a t shirt and w kickass boots.
  2. mom jeans and grandpa sweaters.
  3. fishnets!!! fishnetsfishnetsfishnets omg just get them ok
  4. buy a plain baseball cap in a darker color– you can get them hella cheap on amazon. then buy some patches (also on amazon).
  5. fuzzy sweaters and jackets. the kind of fuzz is up to you. but make sure it shows.
  6. creepers. puma x rihanna ones are amaaaaazing but so damn expensive so knockoffs work too?
  7. stick and poke. 🙂 {side note: do not attempt if you don’t have good tools or don’t know how. be careful and have good judgement if you attempt this ok?}
  8. mini backpacks for all your mini shit. way better than plain old handbags
  9. interesting socks.
  10. anything forest green; or aubergine purple.
  11. tea!!!!

ok thats all i got for now

comment if you have any more you think should be added

writing by ~me~: a girl walks around after dark

how many times have we told you you can’t walk around after dark

cold air cold stars rain trees blowing leaves like my city is a whirlpool of

It’s not that we don’t trust you, it’s just

streetlights and rain. asphalt turns to diamonds. fresh air

it’s not safe for you

our voices filling the gaps between the rain and the earth magic returns to us

shady people out there, it’s dangerous

the night turns us into something beautiful we are in control these are our roads

you’re sixteen

no catcallers to burn us because the california night is a cloak like the sea but our mothers are wondering where we are

you’re just a girl

cell phone rings over and over mom’s too nervous behomeintenminutesoryou’regrounded

artemis sits in the moon and stares at us with her knees tucked up asking herself

 a girl

why a girl

 a girl

can’t walk anywhere

after dark.

for the semi confused: loving a scar


i just wanna talk about scars for a minute.

surgery scars. self-induced scars. battle scars. scars you were born with. scars that were forced on you.

emotional scars. physical scars. mental scars. verbal scars.

raised scars. indented scars. long scars, short scars, bumpy scars, red scars, white scars, faded scars, wide scars, smooth scars, scars you can’t see and scars you can feel.

i’m not going to give you the it’s-badass talk, though, because for many, their scars are not badass. their scars are hard to deal with and think about. hard to expose to the world.

but my main point is that it’s important to recognize that your scars should be a personal symbol of strength. you survived. you are surviving. and for that reason, they make you all the more beautiful, all the more stronger, all the more alive.

i love the four inch long scar on the back of my arm because looking at it makes me feel powerful. people asking me about it and cracking borderline jokes about it don’t bother me anymore because of the meaning it holds for me, personally.

yeah that’s about it

just something i’ve been thinking about lately



writing by ~me~ : sisters

sister sister

shimmering shining in the lip gloss

you stole from my dresser.

sister sister

bitten nails, spinning mirrors

insomnia plagues us. moonlight sits on my skin like your freckles, rots in my pores

open sores.

sister sister

wants to kiss wants to tell wants boys and blunts but you’re not there yet

sister sister. face lights up

phone like the sun.

sister sister.

heart beats in time with mine and

we’re gonna fly away someday, to the beat of a crappy taylor swift song

sister sister

fly fly away.


writing by ~me~: nano 2k16!

hey all.

sooo this has been a crazy month, to say the least, what with trump and all.

i’m not totally sure what else to say about that (actually that’s wrong. i have a shitload to say about the election results, as demonstrated in a few previous posts, which you are free to look at).

there are a lot of questions left unanswered and fears being silenced right now. i just wanna stress the fact that the most important thing we can do is be there for each other. be an ally. comfort those who need it. don’t lose your sense of self in the tsunamis of hate we are all drowning in. respect each other.

for me, it has been extremely hard to focus these past two weeks. but at times, i have a working way to lose myself in something i enjoy (when i’m not desperately brainstorming ways to change the world)…

{and guess what it isn’t drugs lol that sounded hella sus though}

…which brings me toooooo…



so national novel writing month is basically where you set a “word count goal” (the die hards usually go for about 50,000), think of a novel idea, and write/finish that bitch. in a month. trying to reach your goal.

ok as you can tell i’m pretty shitty at explaining stuff so just google it for a better explanation ok

so i wanted to share an excerpt from mine-it’s only like ten pages long but here’s a sampling. it’s basically trash but leave comments if u wanna. feedback is appreciated, as long as it’s not just a put down. thanks!

How do I explain Eloise?

Chemistry. I like chemistry, the order of things. So if Eloise was an element, she’d be lead. Shining dully, beautiful. Molding herself into anything. A poor conductor of electricity and empathy.

Toxic. The kind of toxic that you don’t notice at first. The kind of toxic that you see every day, touch, be with, the kind of toxic that you want more of, until it consumes you, glimmering silver.

But maybe, after a long, long time, it gets to you. Your perfect grades begin to slip because you’re losing your self motivation, self confidence.  You are tired all the time. You don’t want to do anything anymore.

You don’t understand why, at first. You don’t understand where it’s coming from, why you have lost your sense of self.  Your mother worries, asks you what’s wrong, but you can’t tell her. It gets worse. Poisoning. You know it’s coming from somewhere (the paint on the walls? Your dinner plates?) but you can’t quite put your finger on where.      

And then, one day, Eloise said something unforgivable. It hit me like a tidal wave, and suddenly everything made sense. Her comments, her actions, her ignorance and selfishness was draining me.  She seeped into my water pipes, flaked off the walls of the box I kept putting myself in, got my food, my blood, my everything. My best friend was killing me.

I hated her after that. Hated her for what she said in that moment, hated her for the snide comments and lack of empathy, hated her everything.

But most of all I hated myself for letting it happen.

I think that was why I can’t help freaking out every time I see her.  Because when  I look at her, all I remember is what she turned me into…”