You’re More Trouble Than You’re Worth

“You’re more trouble than you’re worth.” A phrase that pretty much sums up every boy’s reason for breaking up with me.

I was more trouble than I was worth when his friends didn’t like me, and when I demanded his attention.

I was more trouble than I was worth when I struggled with Depression and Anxiety and second-guessed every move either of us ever made.

I was more trouble than I was worth when I wouldn’t have sex within the first month of us meeting.

And now, I’m more trouble than I’m worth because although I manage my Anxiety relatively well, it’s still there, and that’s too much. I’m more trouble than I’m worth because I need emotional support, and I need to talk about my feelings.

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ANOTHER POEM! I’ll get back to regular posts soon, I swear. I wrote this one for my Writer’s Craft class in grade 12, so I don’t think anyone I know personally has seen it. It’s a sonnet. A Petrarchan sonnet to be exact, according to the Word doc I handed in. I would NEVER in a million years write a sonnet without being forced to do so. Rhyming is so hard.

So this, I believe, is about forgiving my first ex-boyfriend for all the stupid shit he did. However, I believe that this was written BEFORE I found out the actual truth and not just the half-truth. I think this would have sounded more like “FUCK YOU, YOU STUPID ASSHOLE, AND THIS STUPID FUCKING SONNET, AND THIS STUPID FUCKING CLASS” if so. I did eventually calm down.

I could be totally wrong but I think that I was envisioning what would happen if I simply walked away – it might sound easier but I would regret it, and the ‘turn’ comes when I realize that things weren’t all the seemed and he deserved forgiveness.

Early 2010

A new year waves as it passes by
to mark the date of the day I ran,
my memories hidden, treasure deep in sand.
I thought escaping all your lies
was a better resolution than to try
fixing something forever broken without a plan.
Now we’re standing where it began
and my regret looms, a mountain before my eyes.

There you are at my feet, an obituary
of the life I left behind. Salty water leaks into my hands reaching for your hair,
flooding my mind with visions contrary
to what I once believed. Your steel glare
now replaced with clarity, you become the wronged adversary.
Forgiveness penetrates without the usual fanfare.

Broken Hearts and Sweet Hypocrisy

Ok, so remember how I re-discovered all those old poems? And I was all, I hate everything I wrote in high school? Well, it turns out that that is not true, I only hate SOME of what I wrote in high school. This is a collection of poems about “a broken relationship, but more than that, they’re about one broken person and the secrets they kept, and someone who would have given anything to save them” according to the description I wrote on FictionPress. And the reason I don’t hate these particular ones is because they give me SO much insight into what happened back then and what my thought process was like. I think these are illuminating. There were 6 of them but these are the only ones that I think are interesting enough to share. (Note that I said ‘interesting’ and not ‘good’.)

I talk a lot about how tough this whole experience was for me, I did an entire speech on it last year, but no one can say it better than fifteen-year-old me.

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Best Before

Best Before 

February 16th, 2011

I wish you came with a warning sign,
some indication that you would change,
and want to move across the country
or the world
with or without

You’re a carcass
with the same polished exterior
but something frightening and sinister inside
I’d roll over in the morning
to come face to face with a corpse
I don’t recognize

Maybe I could have
spared myself the trouble
and told myself
that this is the best before date
after which I would have to leave
before we expired

The second poem I dug up from my earlier adulthood. If you can call 18 adult.

This one is also about my ex-boyfriend, except it actually is about the second one this time. I mean I totally did have this moment with the first one too, but not in this way. This was when I started realizing that he wasn’t necessarily who I thought he was, or who he actually was 6 months prior when we started dating. And I was like, “Yes, I should leave,” which would be nice except for the fact that I didn’t do that for another year and a half.

Also, the next time I am mad at a boy who breaks my heart I will spit at him venomously, “You’re…a…carcass…sss”. I think that would be simultaneously badass and hilarious. I very much wish that I had re-read this a month ago so I could use that line.

Again, if you want to read more of my fiction, you can check it out on FictionPress here. 

And Every Day After That

And Every Day After That

January 22, 2011

I wake up
to hear
‘I love you’,
a tangible reassurance
that you’re safe.
in my life is still upright.
I won’t have to redefine
and see the world differently,
not today.

I cry
for a minute
with relief, then
that although we have cheated
death today
it will come

I used to have an account on, and I recently logged into it again because I’m considering putting the first quarter of the first draft of my novel on there to see what happens. And while I was there I rediscovered the last couple of poems that I wrote, which was clearly quite a while ago. And I expected to hate them, the way I do my high school poetry, but I do not.

So I decided to share them again.

This was written about my ex boyfriend who got really upset with me for a weekend and refused to speak to me, and I was terrified. I was worried that we would break up or that worse, he would hurt himself. Except looking back I realize that this was a completely irrational fear in that situation, and this was actually written about my first ex boyfriend, who self-harmed and left me worrying-but-not-worrying about him indefinitely.

**By the way, I’ve started posting again on my FictionPress account, although whether or not I post the novel remains to be seen. If you’d like to read more of my poetry and fiction, check it out here.**


I try not to look at the pictures.

I try not to, but they’re there. I have four of them.

I don’t look at them, but I get upset when they fall down – which is often, because I have a cat. I go over and gingerly pick them up, focusing my vision on something in my periphery, so that I don’t really see the image.

I put it back and I walk away, still without looking at it, and I feel like everything is in its place again.

It’s important to me that they’re there. They’re not meant to be seen, they’re meant as a kind of knowledge – a knowledge that by doing this, I am respecting the past.

Most ex-girlfriends don’t do this. Most ex-girlfriends burn everything.

I am not most ex-girlfriends. I keep everything, either hidden in plain sight like the photographs, or tucked away in a box or drawer or a file on my computer.

I don’t really know why I do this. The logical thing would be to try as hard as possible to forget, to make room for something new. But that doesn’t seem to work for me. I guess I don’t want to feel like nearly ten years of my life were for nothing. Even though, essentially, that’s what I’m left with, when you take away all the pictures and cards and text messages and pretty necklaces and pretty words.

The truth is that even though weeks or months or years have passed, depending on how you look at it, there’s still a piece of me missing. And the more time that passes, the more I forget what that piece looks like. Trying to fill the hole only makes me sad. Nothing fits inside of its imperfect shape.

So I let it exist. I try to build things around it, rather than in it, both to keep it safe and to keep it from escaping and ruining everything. I want to protect it because even though I don’t really remember what it was like, I remember that it was good and that I was happy. I know that when I try to think of it now, it feels like I’m looking at another girl’s life, someone far prettier and luckier than I am.

If it ever comes back, or if I find it again, I’d like there to be a nice place for it. It sounds like a nice thing to have. I’d like to be a girl who at least remembers, as well as she can.

I know, logically, that even if all of those memory aids were gone, I would still remember something. I could never forget. That’s the rule. You never forget your first love. Apparently.

Tonight I’ll fall asleep thinking of all the things I want to say, wishing harder than I have all day that I actually could. I’ll mentally dump all of that into the hole, and what doesn’t fit, I’ll put into writing somewhere.

But I think that this approach might be working for me. Slowly. So slowly that it’s probably impossible for anyone, including me, to tell, unless I actively compare how my life feels now to 4 months ago, 8 months ago, a year ago.

I keep either putting way too much pressure on myself (“Well, this is it, I’m never going to think about it again”) or too little (“Well, who cares, I’m going to die alone anyway”). But all I can ask of myself is to try. Focus more on the building of new things than the maintenance of this hole. And it might take years to be okay, and maybe it will never happen, but there are worse things than being the kind of person who holds on. I’m learning that you can hold on while still trying to let go.