writings!: maybelline

steam rises like smog in the darkness. i do not know where it is going. my hair is wet at the ends, but my crown is still dry because the water is too hot to dunk my whole head into.

one of the four other girls in the hot tub kicks me underwater. edie. she’s so small her leg feels like a pool noodle, but it is colder than styrofoam. she kicks her way into the middle of the hot tub, where marion sits. marion is thirteen and angry. edie kicks marion. the underwater lights turn her body into a shadow, illuminates her baby teeth as she screams: “move, marion!”– with a lisp.

marion shoves her. edie grunts. camille laughs. camille is lying on the side of the hot tub, above the water. she is almost falling. but not quite. steady for now. the light does not reach her. her hair is stringy from the water. that is a guess. i cannot see her hair, but i know camille.

my sister is sitting quietly next to me. I cannot read her expression; her profile is a silhouette, but her infinitely long eyelashes stick out, flitting up and down once and awhile. she was born with them. or maybe it’s maybelline.

i sense she is vaguely annoyed. she does not like our cousins. they are too loud and mean and hurting.

marion stretches out her legs. she is tall and strong, with a face like her mother’s. dark eyelashes and light eyes. her feet almost reach the edges of the hot tub. they glow. “i’m fat,” she announces, chin pressed into the water.

the hot tub boils over with words. “no, you’re not,” I say the exact same time as my sister. “i’m fat!” edie parrots, jumping out of the water, and pinches her tadpole belly. camille laughs again. “you’re beautiful,” i say to edie and marion.

marion groans. “i’m not. i don’t even have a boyfriend.”

“i have a boyfriend!” edie yells. camille smacks her. “no, you don’t,” she says. edie frowns. “i do!”

marion looks at me. “she’s lying,” she says, loudly matter-of-fact. her chin sinks further into the water. “marion.” i say. “marion. you’re thirteen. it’s normal to not have a boyfriend.”

she doesn’t respond, instead slips underwater completely. “no,” says camille. “there’s girls at our school who have boyfriends. so many. and they wear shirts that are like, up to here.” she touches her ribs. “and tiny tiny shorts. and they do it on purpose. for boys.”

“boyfriends,” edie corrects from the darkness.

marion bursts out from under water, water streaming from her nose and lips and hair all at once. her eyes pop open. they are glassy. maybe it’s the light. maybe she was born with it. maybe it’s maybelline.

edie cannonballs into the middle of the hot tub. marion yelps, eyes closing fast. camille screams. my cousins are loud. they speak like balloons. bright and bloated and empty.  

“don’t slut shame,” i say, a little late.

“we’re not,” says marion. “it’s just the truth.” she takes another breath and collapses underwater.

this morning i put on mascara. i don’t know why. i did it in the bathroom, in the big mirror above the porcelain sink, cleaner than anything. i knew i wasn’t going to see anyone i cared about. but i did it anyway. habits are hard to break.

but i can feel it running off my face now. the water gives me racoon tears. i rub my smallest finger along my left eyelid, feel makeup come off. my eye stings from the chlorine. it stings from girlhood and hormones that we ooze. it stings from voices cracks. it stings from boys and my sister’s strawberry shampoo. it stings from jealousy, it stings from everything that seeps out of my cousin’s pores and swirls into the hot tub all at once.

it stings from my mascara.

fire using water like gasoline. we are all stabbing blindly with eyeliner at our faces in darkness.

i am tired.

we are so, so, tired.

maybe we were born that way. maybe it’s maybelline.


writings!: sophia can’t sleep


she tells you through a text that the doctor prescribed her valium for her insomnia.

you don’t know what valium looks like; but last night you a dream that it spilled endlessly out of a bottle like cough syrup and blood and

drowned her as she slept-comatose. isn’t that how these things work

anyways? bullets shoot through phone screens. thoughts travel from your head to hers

in the night.

pillows like pills. sheets like paper. tired moon prescribes and prescribes, lab coat gray with craters and dirt and


from future fires


(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~ : 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…”