There’s a First Time for Everything

There’s a first time for everything, and some firsts cling to you in ways you don’t expect. The past three months have felt like slipping into a colder version of myself, like someone turned down the brightness without asking.

My first kiss was the start. I didn’t go into it expecting anything epic, but I didn’t expect the emptiness afterward either. His lips were warm, his hands unsure, and for a moment I thought the universe might be opening a door. Instead, he shut it. Said he didn’t want anything more, said it like he was ordering a drink or tying his shoes, simple, casual, nothing. And I nodded like I didn’t feel something inside me go still.

Then came the cigarette. People write poems about smoke like it’s made of secrets, but all it gave me was a bitter taste and a self-loathing I didn’t need help finding. I tried to pretend it made me look older, sadder, interesting, but it only made me look like someone trying too hard to disappear.

But the vodka… that was different. I won’t lie. I liked it. Loved it, even. It didn’t make me reckless, just quiet in a way that felt comfortable. Like someone finally pressed pause on all the noise inside me. I remember the warmth sliding into my veins, softening everything sharp. I remember laughing too freely, feeling like maybe I wasn’t the heaviest person in the room for once. It felt like being wrapped in a blanket made of nothing, and somehow that nothingness felt safe. And I’m sixteen, and I shouldn’t miss it, but I do. I miss the way it blurred my edges. The way it made my thoughts move slower, gentler. The way it gave me a break from myself. But I also know what it took from me after. The headache, the guilt, the realization that I’m too young to need an escape that badly. That missing it says more about my sadness than it does about the drink.

Therapy continues. The fog continues. My friends laugh beside me and sometimes I feel like I’m watching myself through glass. I keep trying to figure out why these firsts didn’t transform me, why they didn’t make me feel older or braver or anything except more aware of the emptiness I’m always circling. Maybe firsts don’t fix you. Maybe they just expose the parts of you that were already cracking. Maybe that’s why they hurt.

I don’t know who I’m becoming, only that she feels darker. But she’s still trying. She’s still here. And maybe that’s the one thing that matters, the one thing that doesn’t need a first time, just persistence.

Yours xx,

Lenna

Shiny Bug

A poem by Taylor Swift on October 3, 2025

Perhaps someday they will despise you again.

Perhaps it is not a matter of ‘if’

But ‘when’

They’ll re-assess your merits and then

Take a magnifying glass to the shiny bug.

Deflate all the heroes they had decided she was.

And maybe they’ll do it just because.

But you live by a strict code:

Never believe your own mythology

Never type your name into the search bar

Let the wolves howl all they want

The moon should never howl back

You know if you play, it’s a losing game

So you Keep yourself too busy to ever learn what’s-their-name’s name

And these are the reasons

you are still somewhat sane.

Porcelain Dust

Summer has come and passed, the innocent can never last. Eleanor is not quite present as she walks around the halls. The house was too quiet for a Sunday. It felt like someone was walking beside her, mocking her. Mocking the girl with tired pointe shoes and hair like faded gold. She had tied it up neatly, but strands escaped, whispering against her cheeks as she stared out the window. She thought of summers gone, of innocence that slipped away too soon.

The rain began without warning. Drops fell like tears from the stars, darkening the glass, streaking the pale reflection of her own face. She pressed her hand to the cold windowpane, fingers spread, as if she could touch something, anything.

Every rhythm in her bones begged her to dance, but her body sat still. Every memory rested deep, yet refused to sleep. Because September had teeth. And September always returned. "Wake me up when September ends", Eleanor whispers, and rips out the hair ties and clips from the hair.

Self-contained pt.2

Two weeks in, Lenna hardly recognizes herself.

When she was younger, she kept her head down, soft and blurred. But here, in this place where nobody knows the old version of her, she finds herself sharper. She laughs louder. She leans in when boys talk, tossing out little lines just to see what comes back. Flirting once felt like an act she could never quite pull off; now it slips out of her easily, like her body has learned a new language while she wasn’t paying attention.

And then there’s the dancing. At the welcome mixer, she hadn’t meant to let go the way she did. One song bled into another, and soon she was moving like she didn’t care who was watching. For a moment, she forgot about being “new” or “friendless”, she just disappeared into rhythm. She used to think dancing was something you did at the edges, swaying carefully, half-hidden. But now, she wants to lose herself in it, to let it swallow her whole.

It surprises her. She always imagined she’d be the kind of girl who didn’t need anyone, who stayed steady and watchful, just as her mother always said: eyes peeled, head screwed on. Maybe she still is that girl. But she is also something else now, someone who can flirt, someone who can dance, someone who can be different without asking permission.

And she doesn’t hate it. I don't hate it.

Love, Lenna ❤

Tuesdays Pinkey Promises

Okayyy, just got back from my second day at school! I have spoken to so many girls, and we have created a class groupchat. Apparently there is a lot of drama to come, at least the older girls said that, but we all promised each other to stay nice. Pinkie promise!

I really need to cut my hair. I need myself to change, honestly. Be softer, kinder, etc... I don't know, I just need my energy back, really. I'm working on it.

Tomorrow after school, dad will drive me to a small ballet shop to buy an outfit to train in. I'm thinking of going pink, but we'll see... My ex best friend has been chatting with me lately, and that's nice! Oh, I don't know what to say. I'm so tired, and have so many things to think about. Luckily, these days are short! Tomorrow I start at 8:30, fix a new PC for myself somehow, get my school books, talk to my teachers, eat lunch and have my first dance lesson with a teacher named Monica! I will wear black 2000s adidas pants and a tank top, I think. It's a starting point, as I plan to get inspiration to all the girls around me for outfits. School ends 13:45. That's early for a girl like me who has had school days from 8:30 to 15:00 every. single. day. for the past year! Let's just ignore the fact that my school days will start ending at 16:30 soon... Ouch. Thursday will be insane, as I start at 9:20, have three classes (two of which are math) and leave at 11:50.

Well, love, Lenna ❤

Hope And Fear

I’ve got my skincare on, hair tied back, and in a few minutes I’ll jump into the shower before I keep packing my bag. Music is playing low in the background, filling the quiet spaces that otherwise feel too heavy.

It’s strange, this mix of hope and fear. I want so badly for this year to be kind to me, for the days to feel lighter, for the nights to feel less draining. But there’s this part of me that’s terrified… terrified of losing energy, of burning out, of not being able to keep up with everything and everyone. I’m scared of running out of the pieces of myself I’ve been holding together for so long.

Still, I’m holding onto hope. I’m hoping that this year doesn’t just take from me, but gives something back. That I’ll find moments where I can breathe without worry, laugh without force, and feel at home in my own skin.

Self-contained

Lenna pictures herself from a distance, the way you’d watch a character in a film. There she is, walking up the front steps of a school she’s never set foot in before. A little too early, bag hanging off one shoulder, hair tucked behind her ears in a way that says don’t look at me but please notice anyway. It’s her eleventh year of school. By now, the rituals are muscle memory, but she wishes she could get new ones. The polished linoleum floors with a faint reflection of sneakers are all too recognizable. She wishes she could just start working and move out, because she has outgrown this. Still, there are three years left. 

Her mother’s voice threads through her mind, saying "Keep your eyes peeled and your head screwed on."

Her mother says it about everything from crossing busy streets to dealing with strangers to navigating supermarket sales. It means look sharp and don’t be a fool. It also means she can’t afford to get swept away by things like popularity or gossip.

From my imagined third-person view, Lenna looks… fine. Not lonely, not desperate, just self-contained. She doesn’t plan on making friends, not because she’s above it, but because she isn’t convinced she needs them to get by. Friends are like dessert: nice if they appear, but she can live without them. She takes a breath, rolls her shoulders back, and walks through the hallways. She doesn’t know what the year will bring, but she likes the way she looks doing it. After three years with a total of 570 school days, she will officially be graduated. It's the final countdown (that's really funny of me actually).

Love, Lenna ❤