Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Jade Sep 2018
VI. I, Ophelia

­{The Drowning}

It was her--
Flower Child.
Weeping Woman.
Crazed Ophelia--
who taught me that the
drowning is in the letting go
and not in the doing.

Ophelia did not flee to the riverside
with the intention of
drowning herself, no--
it was merely a promise of bouquets--
daisies, violet, rosemary,  rue--
of wild, velveteen petals nestled softly
against tear-stained cheekbones;
pine needles--
beneath raw feet
(do you recall how The Little Mermaid
danced upon knives
in the name of true love?);
and the train of her nightgown
a focal point for dewy leaves
and frayed bird feathers.

For it was flying she thought of
as she climbed the scarred willow
and cradled herself atop its highest bough,
severed blossoms in hand,
legs dangling precariously over
blustering currents.

when the bough
b r o k e ,
the cradle did   f
                               ­   l
and down came
mad girl
cradle and all.

But you must understand--
the dismemberment of the
willow's flailing limbs
was not her doing;
when the rapids dragged her down
to the belly of the murky river bed,
she merely gave no struggle
as death lapped at her ribs--
she merely submitted,
allowed the snivelling maw of the river
to swallow her whole.

I think it suiting
that I ponder the demise of the
Flower Child
(wilted in her ruin);
Weeping Woman
(tears reunited
with the eye of
the water lily);
Crazed Ophelia
and all she has taught me
of drowning
as I let myself
fall asleep in the bathtub
at three o clock in the morning,
all the while a little drunk
and so very sad.
(You'd might have even thought
I wanted to drown myself. )
{Th­e Resurrection}

Doused in the pallid wash
of blue stage light,
and the clamour
of imaginary tides
growling in my ears,
I metamorphosize into
Hamlet's Ophelia
and all the other Ophelias
who came before me--

Women who were never
capable of quieting
the sea trembling
in their veins;
the barbaric deluge festering
within their souls;
the siren songs
musing to the cavernous twists
of their hearts,
piercing through artery
with stalagmite precision.

These women succumbed,  
not to the water,
but to the burden of their own

None of them survived.

Except for me,
of course.

And, I must admit,
it took my
writing this poem
to finally understand
why that is--
I have managed
to stay alive,
despite dreaming of that
same siren song
that lured my foremothers
to their destructions.

Ophelia could not weather  
the tempest seething over her.

But I different--
I am not alone.

Because I carry with me the spirits
of all the Ophelias
who came before me,
the fragments of their beings
melding together to create
a brilliant gossamer of hope.

And that is why,
we can breathe underwater.

Ophelia Bows,
her performance immortalized
through the remembrance
of a standing ovation.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
Jade Sep 2018
I. The Mermaid

I am six years old,
and I am obsessed with Ariel
from The Little Mermaid--
she is, by far,
my favourite Disney Princess.

I want to be exactly like her--
hair billowing in red swirls
around a heart-shaped face
and eyes so blue they put the very
ocean to shame
(my sister has blue eyes too, you know,
and, to this day, I still envy her,
for her eyes are the loveliest
characteristic of her Beauty--
and believe me, there are many);
purple clam shells vibrant
against porcelain-doll skin
and fully blossomed *******
(in three years from now,
I will begin
to grow *****--
elementary-school style,
B Cups going on C cups
fated to become D Cups,
in comparison to the
budding mosquito bites of
my fellow classmates.
Barely a child,
womanhood threatens
to sexualize my girlish body
before I truly know
what sexualization is);
fins cutting through the water
gracefully in all their
green, iridescent glory
(little did I know that,
as I grew older,
"cutting" would adopt
a far more sinister meaning
in the context of my life).

despite my admiration for Ariel,
I fail to understand her desire
to abandon her
under-sea rendezvous,
sunken treasures,
oceanic melodies to
"be where the people are."

This lack of approval I foster
exists due to the fact that I am
a firm believer of the magic
the aquatic realm (and Disney)
has to offer.

To this day,
I continue to maintain my stance--
that Ariel had been terribly wrong
in the choices she made--
but I have become cognizant of
different (and better) reasons
to argue my position;
after all,
and as a cartoon crab
had so wisely declared once,
"The human world--
it's a mess."
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!
6.7k · Jul 2018
Jade Jul 2018
I am the prodigal daughter
of Hestia--
Goddess of hearth,
embers that do not fade,
for they glow as softly
as lightning bugs.

But this time,
I will not be returning home.

Don't you see?

I've burned it down already.

Perhaps there shall exist no redemption
for my pyromanic sins.

They could not save
Sylvia Plath
as she ****** her head into the oven,
carbon monoxide stealing away
her last strands of breath.

(Sadness climbs up my throat in
stalagmites of flame,
rises from the chasm of my soul like bile,
like a phoenix reborn.)

They could not save
Joan of Arc,
whose flesh screamed out among
the ringlets of fire
and threads of cinder
that consumed it
so mercilessly.

(No, I am not a witch--
just a demi-goddess,
just a dangerous woman
But, unlike Joan of Arc,
I am no Saint either.)

They could not save Pompeii
whose inhabitants lay
by the magma regurgitated by
the Almighty Vesuvius

(I cannot decide who I am
more similar to--
the inhabitants of Pompeii,
or the lava itself)

Perhaps then,
there is no saving a woman like me--
a woman forged from brimstone,
Hell's very own Femme Fatale.

I wear lighter fluid
atop my collar bone like its fragrance;
braid singed ribbon into my hair,
its ends charred and
curling upwards like tendrils of smoke;
rouge my lips with gunpowder.

Kiss me and
bite the bullet, darling--
make love to me
and you will combust.

But oh!

How these men will  bite their lip
at the thought of
******* me,
of dipping their fingertips
into the molten pools
that dwell between my thighs
similar to the way
a mere girl
(I, 16 years old)
is fascinated by the prospect
of baptizing her own melancholic
hands in candle wax.

(Who's the real ******* here, Baby?

your Filthy Pyrophilliac.)

I am a
shadow charmer,
the  Siren
of this Inferno
(wanted for her crimes).

Perhaps I was never the epitome of darkness,
perhaps I simply
lured the darkness towards me
(sorrow and the devil too.)

It's funny now that I think about it,
how the stars too reside in darkness,
how, when I wish upon them,
I am really only wishing on fire.

And where there is fire,
there is destruction;
it's no wonder all these dreams--
those of
have shuddered to ash.

Still, l I find myself making
snow angels in the ashes,
stick my tongue out,
let the remnants of desire
scorch my taste buds.

Here I lie
like an extinguished cigarette,
my use fulfilled and discarded.
But that's just fate,
stars ain't too fond
of nicotine, ya see,
ain't too fond of me
even though the very atoms
that comprise my being
are made of the stuff of galaxies.

But, oh, how these galaxies
have escaped my brooding grasp.

I do whatever it takes
to re-ignite what has been
chew on matchsticks,
let the splinters sear themselves
into my tongue;
lap at the iridescent gasoline puddles
that wade along
lonely streets corners;
howl beneath paper lanterns,
for both the sun and the moon
have forsaken me.

I do whatever it takes
to remember where I come from--
a state of limbo,
wherein I am simultaneously
angel (falling) |and| demon (the fallen)

What am I without flame?

they could not save me from it,
from burning.

But perhaps the peril was never in burning;
perhaps it was in  burning out;
perhaps it was in disintegrating.
6.1k · Oct 2018
Swan Song (Warped)
Jade Oct 2018
Heart skips
like a warped record,
trembles over scarred vinyl
until "I love you"
tastes incomplete:

(I)                love                 you

I                  (love)               you

I                   love                (you).

My Swan Song mewls off key,
cascades across the
marred terrain of my soul
in a thick lacquer of tears.
Notes flatline
in unison with my
waning pulse
(waning, like the face
of the moon on the night
of my eighteenth birthday).

My breath
resigns to static,
dances in slow decrescendos--
sputters its way
towards nothingness,
slipping rapidly from
my consciousness until
I no longer hold
any recollection of the music
(or the poetry).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
Jade Sep 2018
V. Ethereal

Maybe being drunk
is the closest I will
ever get to zero gravity--
to walking on the moon.

My fingers curled
around the neck of a liquor bottle,  
I wander to my bedroom window,
as a tipsy weightlessness settles
amongst my limbs
(and my thoughts).

Swaying slightly,
I part the curtains and,
in my intoxicated stupor,
search for Polaris in the night sky,
point to it,
press a clumsy hand to the glass,
convince myself that
I have captured the star,
and all the omniscient power
it possesses,
beneath my finger tips.

Star light,

{lips pant--

star bright,

{my breath appears a catalyst
as the window pane glazes over
in an impenetrable paroxysm of fog}

first star I see tonight,

{I take a swig,
raise the bottle--
a toast
to the cosmos}

I wish I may,

{Lashes meet in
silent matrimony}

I wish I might,

{Behind closed, desperate eyes,
ribbons of colour dance
towards me in a disoriented jig}

have this wish I wish tonight--

to be
obliterated by the very galaxy
that birthed
these grieving bones
and this tumultuous heart.

Because only then--
as the Gods paint the Night
with the innards of my soul,
acrylic purples
churning against the blackness--
will I become what I
have always dreamed
of becoming:


Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for optimal experience)
4.6k · May 2019
Tales of the Ghost Writer
Jade May 2019
Ghost Writer cries.

But you can't hear her.

she can't even hear herself.
Or, at least,
she chooses not to;
she chooses to ignore
the sob caught in her throat
like a pill that's washed
down the wrong way.

Ghost Writer attempts
to swallow her sob
which then catapults
to the depths
of her stomach
where she can
reach it
(where she can never
fully tame it
to silence).

When Ghost Writer
studies her image
in the mirror,
she can't quite comprehend
the sight of her reflection.
The intricacies of
human life become blurred,
almost inconceivable.

Head tilts in
"so what ?"

Lashes flit against
shrinking pupils--
"these eyes are
vortexes of dream."

Breath respires from
mouth to mirror to fog
"I am not real..."

Ghost Writer's body is
tethered to the earth,
but her soul dwells elsewhere.

Heart pleads,
tries to convince her
of her own existence,
pounding with the force
of a Goddess' blood
against skeleton-key ribs.

But heart cannot
get through to her.

Heart is padlocked,
too far removed from subject,
like the monkey's heart
that "hung" in the
rose apple tree.

Phantom heart
for Phantom Woman.

But it is unclear
if Ghost Writer is the monkey
or the crocodile's wife
in our fable.

Ghost Writer is hungry,
but for what exactly
she hungers for,
she does not know.
She only knows that
she is barren
like the eye sockets
children cut out of
white bedsheets on Halloween.

The colour has been stripped
from the canvas of her creation.

Ghost Writer is
an unfulfilled masterpiece
(something will always be

So she picks up her quill
to make sense of
this senseless emptiness.

She writes and
she writes and
she writes and--
"How prolific!" they say.

all of these poems and
not a friend to her name.

Ghost Writer
sleepwalks through
the terror of this

She goes to grasp
the fingertips of those
she once knew--
those who once cared
Anchors to ground her
to the reality that
threatened to strand her.

A mass of beating vessels--
proof that, as long as they
are in her presence,
as long as they can offer her
the tentative connections
of their friendship,
she, too, is alive.

But when she reaches for them,
they pull away,
seamless as the air.

Ghost Writer breaks,
haunts the desolate
alleyways of her psyche
with the plagues of
her insecurities.
Self-esteem erodes
until she devolves
into her worst nightmare--


Ghost Writer disappears
(this time without redemption).

She leaves no souvenirs behind
to perpetuate her memory,
no tangible mementoes.

She leaves behind
only that which
will not be destroyed,
by fickle, selfish hands:

She leaves behind the

For even long after the
Vanishing Act has
resolved itself to the relics of
what has  been lost,
Ghost Writer shall
always have the last word.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
4.4k · Apr 2021
Jade Apr 2021
The ****
is mightier than the
Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:

4.2k · Apr 2021
You Call The Vagina _____
Jade Apr 2021
⚠Trigger Warning:
The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to ****** assault and misogyny. ⚠
you call the ******


because the hair between my legs reminds you of a cat's fur? reminds you of an animal that is frightened by the simplest of matters--yes, you call me weak.

but that is just the way you prefer us, isn't it?

with our backs arched (but not too high).

forbidden to leave room for a man to crawl under our bodies.

a man is not meant to lie beneath a womxn, no;  

for, a womxn's place is between the man and the mattress.

is that all we are good for?

many things can be put inside a womxn, an empty vessel that you believe it is your role to make full again.

storage locker where you keep your **** rent-free.

slab of cardboard collecting filth in the attic.

another animal analogy.
cookie. cupcake. ****(in). bean:

to butter up. to Flick.

inhaled, not savoured;

nothing more than a midnight fast-food run.


skinned and sold and worn-- a notch in your belt (and your bedpost).


stolen treasure.

in the staff room, someone has left an unopened bag of shrimp crisps. A man I work with walks in and says it smells “like bad ***** in here.”

i laughed.

why the **** did I laugh?

plucked from the garden of eden.


a battle cry.

a word i was taught never to say aloud

(i do it anyways.)

you abbreviate our bodies.

our voices, too.

will we never make it to four letters?

whispering eye:

a whisper is but a gateway to silence.
You call the ******

whispering eye.

but never what it truly is:


Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:

4.0k · Dec 2021
Jade Dec 2021
I’ll be your pin up girl
just so you can
pin me down,
4.0k · Oct 2018
Jade Oct 2018
I imagine you throbbing
inside of me like
a heaving serpent,
your venom
seductively lethal.


I say your name;
scream your name;
howl your name;
let it linger on my tongue
in stale dewdrops of desire,
in bitter muscle memory
I've never managed
to drink away.
{wash my mouth out with soap}

I write about you.
illegible lacerations
on unsuspecting parchment.

{They ask if I am afraid
he will read this poem

I profess--
he's never cared
for any words
but his own}
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal reading experience)
Jade Jul 2018
There goes Lady Fate,
donned in solar sparks
and her lace corset
whose  overt promiscuity
catches the attention of
one unsuspecting astronaut–
his helm fogs as he exhales,
his breath crude and lascivious.
Even Neptune’s eyes themselves
glitter wetly with passion
as she struts towards Polaris in
her pinprick stilettos.

She adjusts her stance accordingly:

I. Purse lips into a smoulder
(might as well look
pretty while ya get the job done.)

II. Aim for the desired target
(that there’s the bull’s eye.)

III. Wreak havoc
just as any Fate is meant to do.
(But, of course.)

She picks up her staff and fires.

The universe tremors
in an unbridled spiral
of colour and chaos
as the planets
d    a    r    t
about like billiards,                                    
                          colliding/|\with/|\ the/|\ stars

who,  in the midst of the madness,
d i v e r g e and c
r* o* s s
for fear of being vanquished.

A cluster of mismatched constellations
and forsaken cosmic particles
settle into a state of
mutual negligence and destruction.
And, together, they liquefy into
a festering pool of molten silver.

Lady Fate grins–
yes, she has the stars right
where she wants them now–
and, in a final act of defiance,
she strikes against the earth
and watches with satisfaction as
it hurtles towards the silver
and sinks down into the molten
like an eight ball.
(And everyone knows it’s
Game Over
once you’ve sunk the eight ball).

From where she stands–
bent over Polaris
in seductive pretentiousness —
she relishes
in the screams
of some wretched lover–
the first to ever be
betrayed by the stars.
3.2k · Jul 2018
Jade Jul 2018
Reaching out towards
delicately rouged areola
(dusty pink,
like rose petals)
his fingertips blush madly
upon their first caress.

He nestles himself
against her blooming *****,
against this garden of a women
where only lovely things--
Star Dust.
may grow.
2.9k · Feb 2018
(Wo)man in the Moon
Jade Feb 2018
Trace the curves on my body

like I am the moon

submitting to the dark,

tantalizing night.

I will offer up to you

my most precious craters,

dips of sultry grey


to be explored,


for you to undress

all the parts of me

you've never had

the pleasure of touching

under the prudish scrutiny

of daylight.

But the sun has long since

straddled the horizon;

the sun has long since

surrendered to the dusk.

And I am ready for you,

my sweet Astronaut,

awaiting the lustful force

of your gravity.

Take me. 

Your skin against

my skin--

the mere sight of us

will make the constellations

redden with passion

and the rings of Saturn

quiver with desire

as they watch as we

erupt into stardust.
2.7k · Jan 2019
My Google Search History
Jade Jan 2019
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to suicide, self-harm, and eating disorders⚠
how do u know if ur having a nervous breakdown
signs of a nervous breakdown
can u be hospitalized for having a nervous breakdown
grounds for admission to a psychiatric ward
what's it like being admitted to a psychiatric ward
thirteen reasons why hannah baker suicide scene
how do u know if ur having a panic attack
are panic attacks and anxiety attacks the same thing
whats the difference between a panic attack and an anxiety attack
generalized anxiety disorder symptoms
thirteen reasons why hannah baker suicide scene
borderline personality disorder symptoms
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
why are my hands always cold
prozac side effects
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
bipolar disorder symptoms
seroquel side effects
does seroquel make you gain weight
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
how to refrain from eating
how to force yourself to throw up
eating disorder symptoms
binge eating disorder symptoms
bulimia symptoms
anorexia symptoms
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
can you overdose on melatonin
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
how did sylvia plath **** herself
carbon monoxide poisoning
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
how many advils do I have to take to **** myself
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
major depressive disorder symptoms
suicide warning signs
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
tortured artist
why did vincent van gogh cut off his ear
virginia woolf suicide note
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
songs about suicide
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
thirteen reasons why soundtrack
billie eilish lovely lyrics
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
why do I feel so empty
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
thirteen reasons why hannah baker slitting her wrists
i wish i was dead
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!


(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
2.2k · Feb 2018
Lana Del Rey (Dusk)
Jade Feb 2018
You think the night

is beautiful,

with her endless

cascade of stars and

the way she wears the clouds

so seductively--

billowing wisps of froth

that adhere to her frame

like a silk negligee,

their mere existence

dependent solely upon

the curves of her body.

She's the girl next door;

the one who keeps you up at night,

the woman you want to undress.

You admire her

for her quiet,

for her stillness.

You worship her,

for she is the keeper

of both dreams and wishes

But I am afraid

you have mistaken her mournings

for loveliness.

What you thought were stars

are really tears,

molten pearls of silver

whose painful scorches

have blemished the

velveteen shadows

of the night.

And the clouds are not truly clouds

but ringlets of cigarette smoke

that arise from her

chapped, wine-stained lips,

imposing onto the air a heavy smog that

sputters throughout the blackness.


she will sing,

her symphonies chaperoned by

the melancholy of Ursa Minor.

"I heard that you like 

the bad girls, honey. 

Is that true?"

The vibrato of her voice

ricochets off the

planes of the universe.

"A fine performance!"

they cheer.

(for someone who is

so unfathomably sad).

The Gods

say she is a warped record,

a label that is dictated,

not by her pitch,

but by her broken heart.

And you will listen

to her anyway;

for she will put you

to sleep with her lullabies

whose sorrow you have

failed to acknowledge--

a sorrow you have mistaken

for beauty.

But, then, perhaps you had known

of her sorrow all along.

Perhaps that was what

had captivated

you in the first place.

After all,

dark minds think alike.
"I heard that you like the bad girls, honey. Is that true?" --Lana Del Rey
1.7k · Jan 2019
Jade Jan 2019
From the moment
the tale of her ruin
made itself known,
mankind has
coveted proof
of her existence.

Many a curious hand
has stalked across
the glossy veins of maps
and the cracked vertebrae of books
enclosing information
most pivotal to
her secret whereabouts
and the tragic evanescence
that initiated her exile.

Many a
have perished among
the gnashing jaws of the sea
in their pursuit of
the glory
her exploitation
would surely bring.  

In response to such
the reality
of losing oneself
in the midst of
searching for what
has already been lost--
the belief in magic,
in the seemingly
was outlawed
within the
human psyche;

they say she is merely
a madman's legend,
a myth concocted by Plato
so as to warn against
the perils of greed.

But never did they consider
that perhaps she did not
want to be found to begin with,
that her seclusion
has always been a necessity
so as not to repeat
the monstrosities of the past--
so she should not resurface
to satiate their earthly desires
only so she can be drowned anew.

Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!


(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
1.7k · Feb 2018
Jade Feb 2018
I. The Fireflies

There was once

a time when the fireflies

had made a home out of me.

One evening,

long after the sun

had surrendered itself

to the hazed horizon

and the pregnant moon,

they had come to my window,

golden freckles of light

twinkling playfully

in the dimness.

What exactly

prompted their gravitation

towards me,

I will never be entirely certain of,

though I have my theories.

Maybe it was the

warm glass of milk

sitting on my bedside table.

Or maybe

they had simply mistaken

the peppers of stardust

laced atop my eyelashes

for their own kin.

Or perhaps–

and most likely–

it had been

the murmur of poetry

on my lips:

…watch how they dart about the trees

in whimsical harmony,

how they rise up towards the dark sky

in the hopes that, someday,

they too will become one with

the constellations that blink

so brilliantly in the blackness.


Perhaps this what had captivated them so–

a homage to the fireflies themselves.

Perhaps this is

why they had drifted towards me,

as if in some fanciful trance,

weightless as paper lanterns.

And how sweet they were

as they twirled about the ringlets

in my hair and

nuzzled their small frames

against my cheek

and fingertips.

How sweet they were–

that is,

until the bees came.

II. The Bees

They made lightning bugs

of my fireflies,

whose soft luminescence was replaced

with a violent stream of sparks,

one resembling something close

to the bursting of a fluorescent bulb

And so came the lightning,

the firefly’s only defence against

the approaching swarm,

their only ammunition

in the impending battle:

fireflies versus


both in want

of my nectared


But the lightning

was no reasonable match

for the bees,

with their

large, gelatinous figures

and the persistence

of their stabbings;

annihilated were the fireflies,

carcasses crumbling to soot,

their innards,

still glowing,

smeared across my collarbone

like war paint.

Victorious and

humming menacingly,

the bees then crawled

into my ears

and my mouth

where they proceeded

to feast on their spoils and plunders:

the honey,

that they so cruelly

stole from me.

And once the honey was gone,

so were the bees,

bellies full,

antennae sticky,

their use for me

fulfilled and therefore


III. The Spiders

The final hosts

were drawn to

what the bees had left behind:

the inconsolable emptiness

of my being,

They marked their territory

with cobwebs–

spun carelessly

into my arteries

and windpipe.

Breath dwindling and

heartbeat diminishing

I tried to remember the fireflies–

the light–

as the arachnophobia

threatened to devour me.
Jade Jan 2019
Inspired by Judy Blume,  inside Jokes with Liz and the poetry of Alissa Grams (


it's me--

I must admit,
I've never read
Judy Blume
or the Bible,
for that matter
(I could never make it
past Genesis).

I am not well-versed
when it comes to scripture--
I am fluent in tragedy
and tragedy alone;
then again,
is there really any difference
between scripture and tragedy?

I was never one
to pay attention in church,
unless the hymns
were of a minor key,
the sermons imbued
with woe and melancholia.

as I write this,
it has only just occurred to me
that Lot's Wife
was never given a name
of her own--
it was destroyed with *****,
forgotten amongst the
flames and the ash.

you were wrong
to punish her
the way you did.

Have you never felt the
sting of salt
against an open wound?

Have you never watched
as all the familiar intimacies
you once knew
dissolved to cinder?

(I know you have).

Do you not see that,
if home is where the heart is,
then the heart
must surely perish with it?

has anyone ever broken your heart?

(I think you know heartbreak
as well as I do;
it is the very matter
of our existence).

So I guess my real question is
(and, no, this time, it is not rhetorical).

I'd like to know why
you would ever think
to hurt your people
the same way
the archangel hurt you.

You say I sin
against you,
but did you not
create me in your image?

(Like father,
like daughter,
I suppose).

I do not think
I believe in you.

At least,
I do not believe in you
like I believe in other things.

I do not
believe in you
the way I believe in
the beauty of
Van Gogh's sunflowers
(his starry nights, too);
or in dog-earing the pages
of my favourite books.

I do not believe in you
the way I believe in magic;
or in the integrity of
polaroids photographs
and listening to vinyl.

I do not believe in you
the way I believed in my love
during the final moments
before his betrayal;
or in the lingering sensation
of my past lives--
Mary Queen of Scots.
Frida Kahlo.
Sylvia Plath--
and now,
dare I feel it,
dare I say it--
Lot's Wife.

(With her,
I shall share a name).

I do not believe
you are my saviour
because I do not
believe in you
the way I believe
in Poetry.

it's me--
this poem is
my hallelujah,
but it does not
belong to you
(not anymore).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!


(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
1.5k · Jan 2019
Jade Jan 2019
I imagine I'm some
mourning starlet
who sings Lana Del Rey
at the club
every Saturday night.

A honeyed halo of stage light
tangles itself about
the curled labyrinth
of my hair,
sparkles gold against
my tearing irises.

My mouth parts
and the war cries begin.

In the moments that
the melody offers
my voice repose,
I pound shots to the beat
of the drummer's ramblings.

The crowd applauds
my tipsiness,
their hoots of praise
shaking at the depths
of my eardrums
like an intoxicated tambourine.

My neuroticism
fascinates these people,
I think.

Not in an
kind of way,
but in an
it is a truth universally acknowledged
kind of way--in a
"*******, cuz I've been there too"
kind of way.

within my little,
concocted fantasy
of stage light
and music
and *****,
the people don't judge me
the way they do
on the outside.

I am not
melodramatic or
overly sensitive or

my war cries sound
a little less
like death and
a little more
like poetry.

they love me
in spite of the sadness.

we share a song--
they sing with me.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
1.5k · Oct 2018
Jade Oct 2018
By my standards,
he is a ten.

I'm sure you're
laughing right now--
"ooohhhh, she think's
he's a TEN"--
but that's not
what I mean.

What I am trying to say is that,
on a scale from one to ten,
one being indicative of
experiencing little to no pain
and ten being indicative of
experiencing a pain whose presence
is capable of knocking the wind
straight out of me--
a pain that I do not
dare to fathom
for fear of prolonging it--
he was a hurricane.

My hurricane.

The eye of the storm,
his aloof ignorance
paralleled against the
violently cyclonic nature
of this heartache--
cacophonic in its impact
and blasphemous in
every context of the word

I don't think
getting caught in the rain
has ever hurt quite this much.

I surrender to this hurt
the way the sea surrenders
to the Almighty Poseidon;
the way my feet surrender
to the rocks
tied round my ankles;
the way my soul surrenders
to its contusions
(so is a casualty
of a broken heart).

I imagine what it would be
like to kiss him
when I wake up in
the middle of the night,
lucid dreaming and
shivering against the bed sheets
(must be hypothermia,
I think;
the coldness of his
absence settling among the
loneliest parts of me).

I try to remind myself
that he was never
any happy ending of mine--
just an ending.
And something tells me
kissing him would feel
a little less
like thimbles
and a little more
like sewing needles.

After all,
he always did have
a way of silencing me,
my lips stitched together
into the most morbid
of embroideries.

Because god forbid
you dare question
a tempest--
even when he has
left you
to stew in your
own ruin--
for fear of provoking
his stormy wrath.

Part of me has
always been
afraid of him,
you know.  
Looking back now,
that should have been
my first indication
that I had been entertaining
an abusive relationship.

he never laid a hand
on me.

I was terrified that
there would come a day
when he would eventually snap.

I can envision it--
ribs crack like lightning;
bruises congealing beneath
my eyes like grape jelly;
fingerprints seared
across my cheek;
my head held underwater
until I've stopped
breathing altogether.

Of course, there exists
more than one way
to destroy a person,
though he will claim
that he has done nothing
to wrong me.

he would tell me that
I am just reading
too much into things.

S'pose it's your turn then,

Trace the brailed veins
of my shattered heart,
and feel all the ways
you have broken me so.

Let your eyes flit
across the expanse
of these water-logged stanzas--
and tell me,
does the poetry not speak
for itself?

Or does my drowning not suffice?
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal experience)
1.4k · Sep 2018
Circus Queen
Jade Sep 2018
The countenance of her throne
epitomizes the state of her soul,
and this countenance I shall describe
but only to who may tolerate the details
of its most uncanny existence.

A clique of stallions
gallop about in a nauseating blur,
their red eyes glowering under
the amber light descending from
an ominous sliver of moon,
its mere presence prompting on
the inversion of the stars
and the curled screeches of
the morbid beasts
whose fur hangs darker than
the trembling eye of Hell.

Atop one lacerated saddle
rides Her Majesty--
The Queen of the Circus,
deranged like the specimen
she keeps in her company.
with every cacophonic rise
of the carousel,
she howls,
her ******* cries as primal as
the stallions' untamed whinnies.

She bites her lip until
she can taste blood
(and ***),
throws her hands to her temples
in ****** wistfulness--
pale limbs encompass teased hair
where decomposing acorns
(rotten kisses)
and bouquets of Nightshade
reside amongst the tangle
of Medusa-Esque curls,
amongst large, brown eyes
that sparkle gold under
the cursed heavens
which have been simultaneously
pleasured and scandalized
by the sight of her bare *******
clinging to sheer leotard,
by the sight of her body swaying
round the rusted poles that
have sunk themselves into the horses' skulls
like a ring sinks round
a glass bottle
or a lover's finger.  

Of course, Her Royal Darkness
is more than just a Circus Queen.
She, indeed, entertains
a grand variety of morbid hobbies;

She is a Fire Eater
{spitters are quitters};

Grave Digger
{she dances the Charleston atop
treasure chests of bones and
bones with carnival mobsters};

Crystal Ball Prodigy
{reading palm | l|i|n|e|s | like

Ring Mistress
{**** or ****,
purr or bite--
what shall it be?};

{knees perched above shoulders,
a man's mouth between her legs};

{"I'll steal your breath away, darling."}

Why yes!

She is a Jaqueline of all trades.

"Pick a card! Any Card! ..."

"Is this your card? ..."

A heart is drawn,
cleaved between her teeth,
each pulse of vein
a magnificent drum beat
against her tongue.
With the blood of her prey--
juices as thickly sweet
as candy floss--
she marks her territory,
parades her ****--
a pink handprint
smeared across the hide
of each stallion.

"What dizzying artistry...
how lovely--
she laughs,
each high pitched giggle
a homage to the maddening  musings
of her soul
(and her throne.)
1.3k · Mar 2021
Jade Mar 2021
When someone calls me

I never know how to
believe them.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:
1.2k · Dec 2021
Jade Dec 2021
If you think about ***
while getting your eyebrows threaded,
it doesn’t hurt nearly as much.
1.2k · Dec 2018
Beast of Burden
Jade Dec 2018
No boy will ever
want to **** me

if I forget
to put on makeup
in the mornings
lips red as Eve's forbidden fruit
succulent enough to
go down
cuz my nose don't
look so My-Big-Fat-Greek-Wedding
when it's caked in highlighter

if I have short hair
because short hair means
I'll look too masculine
in the ninth grade I
had a pixie cut
pixie dust
I could feel
my light burning out

(I never did believe in myself)

if I'm not thin
two finger diet
VSCO diet
have you seen
the lovely girls
on the internet
in their
tight bodysuits
Coke Zero
they'll get first access
to his ****

if I'm a *****
cuz how will anyone know
what you've really
got to flaunt
when you have to wear
a uniform to school
frumpy plaid kilt
white polo shirt
every button a barrier
like the notches
on his belt
tie coiled
a noose
around your neck
every casual day
I wear fishnet stockings
***** necklines
with push up bras
even though
I'm already a D
cuz I gotta get that D
gotta compensate
for being a ****** somehow

if I don't shave my
three days before high school graduation
I bought a thong
and got my first Brazilian wax
even though I didn't have
still don't have
a boyfriend
but I wanted him
to be my boyfriend
thought I should be prepared
thought maybe when he saw me
clad in
floor-length gown
blue Converse peeking out
from underneath the tulle
I'd be his
Belle of the Ball
that he'd
take me
**** me

love me

but how could any boy
ever love me
in all of my

how could any boy
ever love me
after reading
this poem?
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!


(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
1.1k · Oct 2018
Momento Mori
Jade Oct 2018
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide ⚠
­The envelope
(delivered just this morning)
splits in his attempt
to tear away its wax seal
where her very breath still wanders.

he finds a razor blade--
upon being removed
from its paper hostel,
it glints prismatically
in the Autumn sun--
and a neatly-pressed letter
accompanied by an overwhelming
medley of scents--
mint lip balm;
it still smelled like her.

With butterflies rising like bile
up his throat,
he unfolds the letter,
reading over her
spidery handwriting
several times before
her words fully percolate:

"Do not return to sender--
she's already dead."
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal experience)
1.1k · Oct 2020
Ode to My Itsy Bitsy Titsy
Jade Oct 2020
left cup runneth over/

right cup half empty/

if I add my left cup size to my right cup size what will I get/ DD + D = DDD/I've never been great at math/but this is no/miscalculation/

I am 36 DD confined to a 36 D bra/

(D)Disgorges over the underwire/

D--you flaccid beach ball/I wish I could reinflate you/part my mouth around your ******/and/

no one can tell/unless I wear a tight bodice/then/you are/obnoxiously evident/

I am afraid of introducing you to my future boyfriend/will he still want to undress me/will he still want to make love to me/

will he still want to touch you/


sea urch/in/the palm of my hand/

even I am hesitant to hold you close to me/


strangulated bagpipe/

moulting pompom/ B-O-O-B/
what's that spell/
what's that spel/
what's that spe/
what's that sp/
what's that s/
what's that/

what is that/


who are you/


waning gibbous/

my metaphors wane, also/it turns out there are only so many euphemisms that can be assigned to an/ill-proportioned breast/

itsy bitsy titsy/

you make me/



teardrop defying the laws of gravity/

is it the laws of gravity that defy the teardrop/so that it never falls into/

I've noticed only/beautiful/things/

shooting stars/


my left *****
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:
1.1k · Jan 2019
Jade Jan 2019
Most days,
she feels so lost,
that you would think
there was once a time
when she belonged to someone,
that she had accidentally
been misplaced somehow.

But you must first have something--
want something--
before you can lose it.

(And no one has ever wanted her.)

She is a translucent thing,
you see.

She must walk through walls,
for no one--
neither friend nor foe--
seems to notice her
when she enters a room.
(or when she leaves one.)

She’ll slip away
from a crowd so easily,
it was almost as if she was
never even there at all.
It only takes a second–
a breath,
a bat of an eyelash;
by the time you’ve turned around,
she’s gone.

(she's always been good at disappearing,
or maybe you're just bad at paying attention.)

But it’s no matter;
her presence does not faze you,
so what makes her
any different?

No one would care
to love a girl like her,
A girl so
o u t
                o f
p l a c e.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Jade Apr 2020
Spinal column
a stairwell of books,
rungs of untouched vertebrae
avoided by the bibliophile herself


Brain is wired differently
than the rest of them.

At first,
I thought it was a matter of being
A veteran perfectionist
who strives to imagine every detail
as intricately and accurately
as the author must have intended.

Character's faces morph into
sloppy, patchwork collages,
features copied and pasted from
beautiful strangers and
celebrities who played
in the movie adaptations.

Their appearances are both

I am told a character is pale,
but can only manage to visualize a complexion
the colour of notebook paper,
penetrating blue eyes mere apparitions
against a wintry terrain--
her ears
misplaced beneath the tundra.

I lay the book atop my collarbone,
its cover pitched into a make-shift tent.


Almost as if I am
afraid to disturb
the seriffed constellations
that flicker above my heart.

I stare up at the ceiling
(vacant, as am I),
my eyebrows scrunched
into nooses of concentration,
several minutes passing before
her cheeks gradually begin to thaw,
warming over in an ombre
of pinks and olives.

And I rejoice!

Strike down the tent,
pupils hungry for prose.

But there is always
another character.

In Valley of the Dolls,
a handsome man,
whose hairline I cannot
properly envision

(this makes him less handsome).

This time,
when I lay my book down,
I do not proceed with caution,
the corners of its pages
dog-earing against my body.


men's hairstyles, 1940's

(I need to commit to memory
three different styles
so the three different males
I am working with
are not trite clones of each other).

I can only manage three pages
at a time
before having to take a break.

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is an exponential task,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting
Jaqueline Susanne's vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

Three pages for me
is strenuous,
as I pause to formulate
images befitting Jaqueline Susanne's
creative vision;
as I look up every word
I don't know the meaning of
in the dictionary;
as I repeatedly deliberate
the same passage
because of my incapability
to thoroughly process the text

on the first
I don't know...)


Turns out
this is more than just
being ****-retentive.

This is Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

I yearn for times of old
junior high
when I could finish a novel
in a day--
ramona and beezus
butterfly lion
the silver donkey.

But even then,
the obsessions were there,
one substituted for another:

the ceaseless gushing
of the soap pump
and dizzying rotation
of the faucet taps.

Could barely hold literature
between my palms
without aggravating
the rosettes of eczema
that had sprout
along my hands,
scoured clean and raw.

I outgrew these harrowing baptisms.

Am still waiting to outgrow
the laborious nature of my readings.

My only antidote poetry,
for it heals me in
every way
fiction could not

The poems do not trouble me,
do not burden me
with overwhelming arrangements
of ink and letters.

I confront the English language
line by line,
sedated by the simple
of each stanza.

Because even when fragmented,
these stanzas offer up to me
the written word
like it is ambrosia
when I am starving
for intellect
but cannot feast.

I am spoon-fed words
until I am full--
am reminded that
I am not the stupid girl
I believe I am,
courtesy of my
obsessive, compulsive short circuits.

I do not relate to the cohesion of prose,
cannot deny the brilliant likeness
that exists between the reader
and her enjambment--
both fractured mosaics of metaphor.

I am
as broken
as these verses.


it is only as
I shatter
that I am freed.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:
1.0k · Feb 2018
Coming Home
Jade Feb 2018
Lotus petals woven into her hair and

wrists bound with reeds,

she descends into the murky

warmth of the river bed,

where the minnows and tadpoles

nestle against her

***** affectionately–


at last you

have returned

to us.”
Jade Mar 2018

The colour

of bruised knees


and lips begging

for oxygen


A hue

caught somewhere

between blue and red

(two extremes).

Blue for misery,


(frigid, the tundra),

blue like the ocean

(drowning, an ode

to Ophelia).

Red for anger,


(burning, the inferno),

red like flame

(gasoline for blood,

playing hide and seek

with embers).

Ultraviolet radiance

(blinding, turn your eyes away

the Purple).


(well, not so vibrant)

yet dark

(sometimes, too dark).


(just as the lilac

blossom is)

but harsh

(the bee that devours

the blossom's nectar).

China Doll complexion

(rosy cheeks,

skin the colour of moon dust)

paralleled against whirling eyes,

surging pools of burst blood vessels

and flared veins

(dear god, the Madness!)

Poetry personified--

counting syllables

instead of counting sheep

(a spoonful of codeine

to wash down the tears).

Words engraved into flesh

(wearing sadness like it's

crushed velvet--lovely);

these ink-stained wrists

(or is that blood?)

Empty band-aid boxes

(the scars still ache

whenever it rains)

and empty liquor bottles

(enamel eroding,

mouth swimming in froth).

Fearful of the night,

for the night will 

surely bring the mourning

(A seer-- forever dreading


Self-medicating with

Antihistamines and Tequilla

(Witch Doctor,

burned at the stake

in another life).

Dreaming in pastels

(when the insomnia

permits it)

but existing in a

grey-scale reality

(inhaling this pain

like it's cigarette smoke).

"A penny for your thoughts?"

(Haven't you forgotten?

They've stopped making pennies

because this world no longer

has any use for them).

A reflection in the mirror

(glass shatters,

pupils collapse in on themselves).



take away this body!)

"I love you..."


not pretty enough

to be touched).

A serenade for him(s)

(rejected letters,

"maybe we should 

just be friends").










(wind knocked from lungs,

soul plucked from body).

Lips shatter as 

the kiss the cement

(step on a crack

break your mother's 



who named her child


for the gemstone


( ̶p̶r̶e̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶),

for the green,

Mother Nature's

chromatic blush

(wilting dandelions,

forsaken wishes).



It's a colour that

never quite suited

a girl like me--

a girl with a purple soul.
976 · Oct 2021
Jade Oct 2021
Not even

all the king’s horses

and all the king’s men

were enough

to mend her broken heart.
Jade Jan 2019
There's always been something
so Hollywood about her--
and I don't mean
21st Century *******.

I'm talkin'
Judy Garland,
you're the bee's knees
type of Hollywood.

Now, listen'--
this girl--
I'm talkin'
(she'll blow your
******'socks off).

I'm talkin'
Cinematic Beauty Queen;
skin freckled with film grain
the same way the night sky
is freckled with constellation,
mouth parted like velvet curtains,
only to reveal the sweetest prose.

She is Mystique-Fatale,
blazon in colour
among dull, sepia tones--
an Oz among all
the dreary Kansases.

She is allure and poeticism,
hair curled grand,
dressed to the nines
in lace and satin
(they wonder
what lies beyond the
half moons of her *******
and the slit in her gown,
if the butterflies
run rampant
between her knees
like everyone says).

Do not underestimate her--
she is both
(her kindness
does not falter)
and Pinup-Girl-Honey
(one would not think
to challenge--
to break--
a woman
so prolifically brazen,
but they try anyway).

In a world filled
with actresses--
please, darlings,
save the acting for
the stage,
******* it--
she is so ineffably herself.

She does not reserve
her emotion for
the theatre alone;
she is not afraid
to cry, and--
when she cries
the earth shakes
with the very profusions
of an opera singer's vibrato.

And, God,
you should hear
her poetry,
brimmed with images
picturesque and tragic,
straight outta the movies
it would seem.
Yet, her words
ring with something
so inconceivably real.

And that's what
you've always loved
best about her--
she is the truest person
you've ever met.

It's a shame, then,
that you wouldn't stay
for the grand finale.

with or without you,
this show must go on.

(and it has).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience)
960 · Apr 2021
The Waltz Of The Underworld
Jade Apr 2021
Dancin' with the devil,

(always stepping on his toes)
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:
955 · Jan 2022
Jade Jan 2022
If you didn’t want me to write poetry about
then perhaps you shouldn’t have ****** me off
949 · Aug 2021
A Message For Texas
Jade Aug 2021
TW: Abortion

If you are anti-abortion,
then you are a misogynist.

It’s quite simple,
Jade Sep 2018
But, oh, how I will revel
in their piteous expressions
of shocked envy
when they see my name--
the name of the

possessive-sad girl

in lights.
S­ound familiar?

Palms sweating, baby doll?

Feelin' guilty, sweet cheeks?


If you suspect this poem
is about you,
then it probably is.
Moral of the story:

Never ******* a poet,
for she will surely destroy
you with her poetry.

And remember, darling--
poetry is immortal.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal experience)
929 · Apr 2020
Olly Olly Oxen Free
Jade Apr 2020
The other day,
I unblocked you from

Not because I miss you.

Not because I am inviting you
back into my life
after a year and a half--

Because I refuse
to remain in hiding.

Olly Olly Oxen Free,

You're playing my game now.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:
920 · Dec 2021
Jade Dec 2021
“Take me down.”

—your pin up girl
911 · Apr 2021
Blue In The Flames
Jade Apr 2021
The fire in my soul
has started to die.

It shrinks down
the trellis of my ribs
like sun-burned flower petals;

wanes itself
to but a simmer

until it is
blue in the flames

Fire needs oxygen
to burn


My lungs thin
into icicles

frost congeals
around my chapped

veins freeze over

(and so does this inferno)
Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:

Jade Jun 2018
The eye of the universe

bats its lashes at a

a single sliver of splintered light

blinking boastfully in the opaqueness–

a crescent m☽☽n is birthed,

carved by the Huntswoman’s

      ➳silver tipped arrows➳

on the night I–

a demi-goddess-

am born.

And this Hunstwomen,

my heavenly mother,

my celestial nurturer,


plants antlers atop my

hairless skull in the hopes that I,

her daughter,

will grow wild

as the deer Her Greatness

has vowed to protect;

as the cypress whose limbs

swell with greenery;

as the moon who must wax

as surely as it must wane;

as Artemis herself,

whom they call

“Lady of Wild Things.”

And I too

am a Wild Thing,

for I am a women

of extremity.

How can I not be,

when I come from a long line

of deities,

whose veins palpitate

with the very atoms of chaos?

How else am to explain the fire

the seethes inside of my soul?

A fire kindled by Zeus,

the Lord of the Sky,

the God of all Gods.

Lightning bolts play hopscotch

across my collarbone,

crack against my ribcage

like Poprocks crack against tongue.

Some days,

these flames enable

the crusade of my passions,

accelerating me onwards,

like the wheels of

pegasus drawn chariot.

But there is such as thing

as being too passionate,

for with great passion comes

great emotion,

and with great emotion comes

the capacity for great heartbreak.

I love with the catastrophic magnitude

of a category five hurricane;

it ’s no wonder any other mortal man

is capable of reciprocating my musings,

for there is no emulating this storm,

there is no matching the desires

of Aphrodite’s offspring.

And you should see my heart

when it’s broken–

the way it snaps so eloquently

like the neck of a swan,

how it metamorphosizes,

scorching itself

to a point of  αγνώριστος



In the pit of my

cracked palms,

I hold the charred










of my heart–

kaleidoscopic shards

jagged enough to draw blood.

When the palpitating ache

in my chest proves to be unbearable,

I sprint to the riverside,

well aware that it is the closest

I will be able to get to the ocean

on such short notice.

I take off my socks and

my worn down Doc Martens

and wade into the water.

Entranced by its

refreshingly cruel coldness,

I baptize myself in its

precarious currents and beg

Poisedon to extinguish the fire in me.

He douses me in his spirit

in an attempt to console the embers

that lick at my heels.

But this attempt proves

to be unsuccessful;

for there is no way of curing

the daughter of Olympus.

Fire and water merge,

imposing on to my being

a molten existence.

I    l~i~q~u~e~f~y.

Tendrils of lava crawl

up my oesophagus,

sear the impression

of a laurel atop my head,

burn so violently,

they turn purple.

“Dear Gods,”

I plead

“Take away this body,

this mind,

this soul–”


a lyrical voice

echoes back to me.

“You must not forsake yourself

like this, ”

she declares.

“The mark of the Parthenon,

of I,

your third mother,


dwells among your fingertips–

There is







in your bones,

an emblem of my wisdom,

of Apollo’s bestowal of enlightenment.

And so you,

my demi-goddess,

must carry on the legacy

of your ancestors through

your wildness

your extremity

your chaos–

your poetry.

For you were made

in the image of the Gods.”
Jade Aug 2019
⚠️Trigger Warning: The following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm, suicide, and involuntary psychiatric hospitalization⚠️

Over the duration of high school,
there is one fear that eclipses
the daily rumination of my thoughts.

Behind sepulchred eyelids,
burn the imaginings

of wasp-needled syringes

straitjackets curling around bodies
with noose-like exactness

a padded room
absorbing brain-curdling screams
into its pink insulation.

At the time,
I was petrified that my newly-discovered
flirtation with self-harm
would land me a permanent stay in an asylum.

The rational part of me knew
that they don't call them
asylums anymore.

The rational part of me knew
there would be no syringes
or straitjackets
or pink, padded rooms.

It was the principle

If it was decided that I was
"an immediate risk to myself"--
a decision that would
incorporate the voices
of the people who barely knew me
but deny me my own voice--
I would be admitted
to a psychiatric ward,
and it would be against my will.

It wouldn't matter
if it was at the Children's Hospital or not--
It wouldn't matter if the walls
were coated with those
sickeningly bright colours
or if there was an Xbox
in the common area.

You can dress up a prison cell
as vibrant as you'd like.
But, by principle,
it's still a prison cell.

When they strip you
of your clothes,
and force you into
their bleak hospital gowns,
they also strip you
of your independence.

(You aren't even allowed
to wear your school cardigan,
the one whose soft, green fabric
you nestle against your fingertips
when you need comforting.

What makes you think
you can leave when you want to?)

doc keeps ya locked up
until he's snuffed the
crazy outta you.

They don't like using
the word
anymore, either.

like the prison cell,
they play dress up
with your "crazy",
draping it in euphemisms like





Once this word is used to label you,
you are never quite able to
abandon its connotation of
a reputation of inferiority.

And everyone believes
that they are only doing what's best for you,
that hospitalization is the only thing
that will save you from yourself,
when, in fact, it's the ultimatums
and the countless visits to the ER
and the way you are treated--
like a poor ***** lying in wait
to be put down--
that destroys you.

The memories still
bleed fresh most nights.

I seethe at
the mistreatment and
the betrayal and
the destruction
like an army of bees
whose hive has been kicked in,
a snow-globe convulsing
between careless hands.

I was kinder
before they stole away
the last moon-slivers of hope
I held between heart and ribs,
between lips and flower petals.

The nectar has been
exorcised from my soul,
leaving only infestation behind.

(and there is no escaping this swarm)
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:
Jade Feb 2020
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠

"These violent delights have violent ends."
~William Shakespeare


When the crevices
on my wrists
solder themselves together
and the rich, crimson stanzas
become illegible,
I unsheathe my quill--

melancholy's scribe.

The ink clots,
driblets of red
bleeding through these pages

but I keep writing

this parchment lies
sweetly torn


I smile.

that's what I call


How violently delightful.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:
866 · Apr 2021
The Girl Who Cried Suicide
Jade Apr 2021
⚠️Trigger Warning: the Following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm and suicide. ⚠️
This piece is an emulation of Aesop's fable "The Boy Who Cried Wolf". Any similarities, as a result, are purely intentional, and I am thus giving credit where credit is due.
There once was a girl
who cut herself,
a plan by which she could get
a little company
some excitement.

(Or so it was presumed)

She rushed out from the
school washroom
after tearing herself open
and called out,
"suicide, suicide!”

And her teachers and classmates
came out to meet her,
and some of them stopped
with her for a considerable time.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help.

This pleased the girl
so much,
that a few days afterwards,
she tried the same trick,
and again her
teachers and classmates
came to help—

But instead of
trying to understand
the chronic illness
that plagued her,

they resorted to an archaic stigma
to inform their judgments
on the subject of mental illness.

They believed
that she only bled
to receive attention,
and was therefore named
The Girl Who Cried Suicide
after The Boy Who Cried Wolf.

she wasn't allowed
to use the school washroom
at all anymore

even if she had to
take a ******* ****

it would only encourage


Despite them never
saying this to her face,
the girl was not



the defamations
that had fallen from the
tongues of these
black sheep.

The Girl was so
profoundly hurt
by this betrayal

that a few years
as she attempted
to bleed herself dry
in the bathtub
at 3 Am
on a stormy
May 30th,

she dared not
tell a soul

for she knew
they would think
this to be an act
of deceit

a freak show
she put on just
for the ******
hell of it—



in some sick,
crimson pageant.

But this was not
a game of


the wolves
had always been




to the blood moon
of her mind's eye

every beautiful thought


the fabric of her sanity
torn from her skull

(And the veins torn from her flesh)

the wolves’ cry
a siren song

leading the lamb
to her slaughter.

Don’t you understand?

I am not playing dress-up

I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing
I am not the wolf dressed in sheep’s clothing

I  am

the lamb to this slaughter
Tell me

If it was all just for



then why did I feel the need

to hide my cuts
with long-sleeved shirts

during gym class

in the summer?

Why did I start
cutting in places
Where no one would ever
of looking?

Why did I tell everyone I
when I hadn’t?

Did you really care about me?

Or did you care about
What would happen to
if the liability killed herself?
You cut me in ways
a razor
never could.
How could you
How could you
How could you

Go **** yourselves,
You uneducated
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:

830 · Aug 2021
Dear Billie Eilish
Jade Aug 2021
I’ve tried to bury my friends
the way you‘ve buried yours.

But their skeleton limbs
unearth my amygdala

shoot through my catacomb skull
in a morbid hail of
bone and grey matter.

Beneath this demented firework display,
the ghouls jitterbug in their demon florals--

if only their hauntings
were as beautiful as their gowns.

Billie Eilish,
I’ve tried to bury my friends

but their remains
could not remain

My brain
bubbles and blisters
like witch’s brew

as I succumb to the hellfire
of regurgitated memory.

Billie Eilish,
I’ve tried to bury my friends

but they’ve stolen away my oxygen
to resurrect themselves.

I guess I am only what they
feed to me—

Billie Eilish,
this trauma is a tomb
I cannot worm my way out of.

Billie Eilish,
my head has turned to stone.

Billie Eilish,
I’ve tried to bury my friends

they ended up
burying me instead.
Inspired by Billie Eilish’s song “Bury A Friend”
817 · Oct 2018
In Memoriam
Jade Oct 2018
⚠Trigger Warning; the following poem contains subject matter pertaining to self-harm ⚠
In memory of

I do not know.

­In the hushed moments
before sleep,
you summon the
loveliest memories of him--
memories now
resigned to heartache and destitution,
to some far off, phantasmic realm
(wherever that may be);

you come to school ill
one winter's morning,
flesh cadaverous,
pale cheeks embellished
by bloodshot eyes
wreathed in dark circles.

He rests his hand atop
your forehead affectionately,
his eyes shaded with concern
as he comes to the realization that
"You're burning up."

(But, eventually, his affections
begin to ebb away,
and with them, so does your fire--
the stuff of magic);

Mouth frothing with rage,
you haul off and
punch the living ****
out of a bathroom stall.
This escapade of fury
leaves your left hand

When you tell him
what you've done,
he meets you outside
of the girl's washroom
and takes your hand in his,
runs his fingers over the
softly and asks you,
"Does it hurt?"

(These days, it hurts everywhere--
and all for him, darling);

He pulls you--
fretful and teary-eyed--
to his chest,
his palm cradling
the back of your neck.

For a moment
you forget about
the cuts on your thighs;
the blood seeping
from your nylons;
the sorrow gnawing
at your bones.
For a moment,
you can't help but wonder
if this boy
is to be your
your Holy Grail.

(And, to think,
one abrupt gesticulation
of his wrist
and your neck snaps--
and you're a goner).
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer for an optimal experience).
798 · Nov 2021
Jade Nov 2021
I’m not done hating you yet,
Jade Apr 2021
I cut off my feet
at the ankles

so as to ensure
they never set foot
in my mouth again.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

Desktop Site:

Mobile Site:

795 · Mar 2019
Apollo's a Phoney
Jade Mar 2019
I swallowed
the sound of your name
like it was a star--
five points,  
the type they
teach you to draw
in kindergarten.

It hurt
on its way down,
stalagmites of constellation
catching on my uvula,
hanging on with
astronomical strength.

But this is no cliffhanger.

Do you know what happens next?

I stopped breathing.

You've never deserved
your name,
you know.
"Light giving,"
it means.

and how I gave into
the sublime
of it.

all you ever did was steal
the moons from my irises.

You treated me like
I was the dirt beneath
your fingernails
(you forsake
the dust on your windowsill--
but don't you know
all dust comes from
the wondrous galaxy that
dwells before us?)

I reached out to you
only to get
c u t
          o f f
at the hands

I couldn't let you
didn't know how to.
Even when my flame
was reduced
to these weeping cinders,
even when the idealization
I held between my palms
found itself exiled
to this mausoleum
of severed trust,
hatred blossoming
in rosettes against
crumbling tombstones.

The epitaph reads,
"At a loss for words."

Tell me this:
what sort of
"light giver"
doesn't believe in
in the possibility of magic--
in the pinnacle of light itself?

You always thought me
a foolish girl
for dreaming--
naive girl,
silly girl,
wrists blooming
in paper cuts,
always one fairytale
away from insanity.

one day,
I stopped believing

And all it took
was a single glance
from those eyes--
glacial sapphires,
your grandest seduction.

Hell itself would have
hardened itself to tundra
at the sight of them.

You always had a way
of contaminating
the things I loved
with a frostbite so lethal,
I would have
gladly dismembered
every hypothermic part
of myself
(every fragment of soul
you ever touched).

Like a shooting star,
I fell for you--


And then the heavens went
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Jade Apr 2019
I shared a post
on Facebook.
It explained that
manipulating someone into
having *** with you
is a form of ****.

To the ex-classmate of mine
who thought it was okay
to post a meme with the tagline,
"Regretting consensual *** isn't ****,"
in response
to my own post:

Not only are
you are a perpetrator
of **** culture,
you act as though
**** is some sort of

You think
victims "cry" ****
like the boy who cried wolf,
that their traumas are fabricated,
cheap shots
to seek revenge against
impotent lovers
and unfortunate one night stands.

Being manipulated into
engaging in any sort
of ****** activity
does not equate consent;
to manipulate is to
unjustly coerce someone
to submit to another.

Consent is not the enigma
society makes it out to be;
really, it's quite simple.  

Did they say yes?

I'm not asking
if they said no--
that's irrelevant.

Did they say yes?

The fact that
one individual
feels the need to
manipulate someone else
into having *** with them
implies that someone else
didn't want to have ***
in the first place.

Guess what?

If someone doesn't want
to engage sexually
with another person,
then that is not consent,
and just as ****
can be imposed physically,
it can also be imposed
mentally and emotionally.

So there you have it,
ex-classmate of mine--
you've said your piece,
and I have every right
to follow suit.

you are remarkably disgusting.

And I'll be ******* ******
if I sit around
twiddling my thumbs,
scrolling through
Facebook mindlessly,
while you belittle
victims of ****
for the purpose of
your own amusement.

Thanks for coming to
my Ted Talk,
*** hat.
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
744 · Jan 2019
Jade Jan 2019
No matter how
you sugarcoat it,
there is never
a nice way
of calling someone


“You would have been beautiful
in the Renaissance era
[because in the Renaissance era
they painted portraits
of chubby girls like you—
back then,
fat was artistry.]

I still don’t know what
I was more upset about:
The backhanded compliment--
"would have"
being synonymous for
"no longer"--
or the fact that
I was conditioned
to believe the
Mona Lisa
was anything short of  
Don't be a stranger--check out my blog!

(P.S. Use a computer to ensure an optimal reading experience.)
Next page