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.

Bigger Things

She is sunshine and rain in one.

Her smile could light up any darkness,

Except the one her sadness creates.

She is plants on the veranda,

And smoke turning the afternoon sun a blood red.

She is your favourite book with the corners folded,

And the stuffed bear from your childhood that you still keep on your bed.

She is the grazed knees of childhood,

And river water on sunburnt shoulders.

She is sunshine.

She is tears shed in the corner of a coffee shop,

And fingers rubbing eyes under glasses.

She is panic attacks in parks,

And 10 cents short for the bus ticket home.

She is the death of an admired celebrity discovered over Facebook,

And the crash of your first car.

She is rain.

She lights candles all around her,

In attempts to relight the burning flame inside her,

That he put out when he left.

She loses herself in books where the girl always gets her guy,

Even in times when love shouldn’t matter.

She fights and screams but only to reclaim

A small amount of control of her life.

She is a girl left behind,

And a friend who deserves more time than she is given.

She is a bike ride I keep meaning to go on.

She is a book I should have continued months ago.

She is a half empty journal that I’ve had for years,

But keep replacing when there is no need.

She is a plant in a pot too small,

She is ready to move on to bigger things.

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.


There’s never noise.

The attacks are silent and small.

And I don’t make a sound

For that would worry you,

And we don’t want that, do we?

We twist and we turn

To avoid the confrontation

We know should come.

With blood dripping from our mouths

And vodka pouring

Out of the holes we tore in our chests,

We jab at each other,

Never close enough to do any real damage,

But the small scratches you leave

Accumulate on my body,

And the poison you pour over me

Seeps into my blood stream

Through those tiny lacerations,

And pain me when I try to wash away

The memories we made together.

I watch you prepare your weapons,

I watch you move closer toward me,

I watch you taunt me,

And I do nothing to stop you.

You make it feel like a game,

You cut me off and make me vulnerable,

Then when you’re the only person I can turn to

You take my heart

From the silver platter I deliver it to you on,

And tear into it with your carving knife.

You say you don’t eat meat

And it took me so long to realise,

That is because you don’t need to

After you engorge yourself

On my blood rich emotions.

And I say I stop caring,

That I’m finished with you,

But here I am still writing,

And I only write about the people I love.

What does that say about me?

What does that say about the hold you have?

When you told me to write about you, is this what you meant?