A Poem On Past Pain

Find the cracks in the wall

And the hairs stuck in the paint.

Stare at where the mirror used to be, 

Now you can see the ceiling 

When you look at the floor

And the bamboo boards

Have little scarlet dots on them.

Remember which was the shoebox

With more than just shoes,

Pull at the all too thick hair

Dead hair

Useless hair

Stupid hair.

Grab oversized thighs,

(Scarred thighs)

And undersized wrists.

(Guilty wrists)

Tear at fingernails

(Jagged fingernails,

Sharp fingernails)

And chew a hole in the bottom lip

(Bitch-face lips,

never-been-kissed lips).

I’m sorry that you don’t look

like the porcelain dolls, given to a child.

That the child cries.

That the child can’t be touched

(Cheeks, neck, legs, hands.)

Without thinking that’s all they are alive for.

Don’t ever touch me.


Jackets three sizes wrong; 

No jawline but see the collarbones,

Orange lashes and brows, but hair too.

Comment on tiny wrists 

Never see the shoulders.

Check out the ass and tits

But turn away at the sight of the stomach.


See hands covering regret.

See unstoppable laughter, hidden

Behind skeleton hands.

The same skeleton hands 

That raked the leaves from the yards

Of people’s hearts.

That hugged air, when thats all there was

After holding in the terror

Of innocence taken at fourteen years.

You took some things from me that I’d quite like back. But I know that can’t happen. Those events shaped me in ways I wish they hadn’t. And now my sister is the same age I was and it’s like living it all again because of the worry I feel that someone will do to her what you did to me.

For My Sisters

T – Thank you for being my best friend. For the fairy games and the Barbies and the races to the TV remote on Saturday mornings. Thanks for giving me books to read and letting me ramble on about my friends and for all the stolen liquor that you never noticed was gone (I’m sorry). Thanks for all the shared clothes and rolled eyes and wrestling and smashed phones and kitchen singing and never ending payback.

S – Thank you for being my room mate. For letting me boss you around and playing make believe with me and giving 11 year old me something to write in my diary (that’s how annoying you were). Thanks for enjoying my music and being fine with the screaming sessions in our room and listening to my stories that I always hype up too much. Thanks for the shared homework and blanket forts and bike races and skinned knees and the bickering and slap fights and the silent treatment.

C – Thank you for being my mini-me. For always making me laugh and making me play hide-and-seek every single day and all the warm hugs. Thanks for your smile every morning and watching kids programs with me all afternoon and keeping me company even when I don’t want anyone in my room. Thanks for tickle fights and sandcastles and screaming in my ear and morbid comments and standing on me and refusing to kiss me goodbye.

Thank you all for my childhood that you won’t ever let end. For daisy chains and trampolines and climbing trees and bike rides and early morning runs and surfing and inside jokes and teasing and holding hands and all our little adventures.

Who I am today is thanks to you. I love you so much.


I always give everyone a chance. They all deserve a chance. Even if they have wronged someone I know, they have not wronged me. I give them a chance.

I give second chances to everyone as well. Sometimes when I shouldn’t. But people make mistakes and they deserve second chances, ‘It was mistake, I trust you.’ I have taken many second chances and I find it only fair I give them too.

And I think that’s okay, the chances and second chances I give people. After that I get a little soft.

I give third chances quite frequently. When I’m in denial that I’ve been hurt, ‘You wouldn’t do that to me.’ And when I’m trying to portray a perfect image, ‘Oh, no we’re fine, we’re still friends.’

I’ve found that I’ve also given fourth chances occasionally. When I’m hurting and I’m not sure I can take any more, ‘My heart may not survive if I lose you now.’ Or when I can’t bear to lose myself on top of everything, ‘I’m not really sure who I am without you.’

And now I’m conflicted. Would I be a push over to offer a fifth chance? Will it just turn into ‘I’m sticking around because I feel obligated to’? But all the reasons for giving previous chances still stand.

I’ve been praying about this, and I have a lot to say next time I see you.


When I’m sitting on a beach with you watching the sunset, and I look into your eyes just as the yellow hues from the fading light hit you right in the face. Your brown eyes suddenly have all the colours of Summer and Autumn and Spring mixed in them. There are reds around the outside, looking like the falling leaves that get stuck in my hair. Then there are browns and yellows of the bark of the trees that I spent my childhood summers climbing. As I work further in there are small specks of green and blue, showing the ocean and the waves that we first grew close to each other in. In the very centre, past the red love, the yellow happiness, the brown longing, the blue lust and the green safety, right in the middle is the colour black, the deepest darkest black. The black that holds untold stories and future memories. The black that holds all the stars in the universe. The black of the hole that I fell into when I fell for you.

From the Archives.

My Oldest Friend

I haven’t thought of you in weeks, haven’t spoken to you in months, haven’t seen you in years, yet somehow you’re standing in my bedroom right now and I’m opening up to you. Painfully and reluctantly yes, but filled with so much relief that I haven’t felt in many moons.

A small red flower blooming by my ankle. One you placed there even though I told you I don’t want them anymore. Not from you. But you smiled and insisted and handed me another one. You mesmerised me and I smiled, you’re so good to me. I didn’t realise how much I missed you until you were stood here in front of me.

These flowers you’ve given me are attracting butterflies and suddenly my room is filled with such beauty that only I am able to see. I know eventually it will all turn to dust but I can appreciate it while it’s here. It’s going to be harder than last time to clean it all out. But maybe I don’t need to. Maybe just because no one else can see the beauty in it doesn’t mean I can’t embrace it. Maybe a drought is not the best thing for me anymore.

Maybe we should celebrate your return with a fresh bottle of vodka.

It still feels just as good as it did two years ago.

I Hope… (pt 1)

I hope she loves you.

I hope she’s the kind of girl who would fly halfway across the world just to see your eyes. I hope she writes about you, notebooks filled with nothing but words of you, letters in envelopes never sent because she can tell in person. I hope she makes you smile with small midnight texts and the warmest hugs where all you want is to stay in her arms forever, with jokes only you two understand and just thoughts of her. I hope she sings with you, in the car on the way to the grocery store, on the train with all your friends, in the ocean, and in church, and at night when you can’t sleep. I hope she makes you strong, that you show her your vulnerabilities and she turns them into your strengths, that she encourages your dreams and is always there beside you. I hope she sends you pictures when she goes out without you and I hope you spend all night waiting to see her beautiful face. I hope she gives you everything you deserve and never leaves you wondering where you went wrong. I hope you spend your whole life with her.

And I hope you love her too.