Poetry

I can’t believe I took so many Pills for mental strife, The doctors pushed them onto me Throughout my adult life. And never did one of those pills Make...

I am traumatised. I am abused. I am dissociating. I am scared. I am angry. I am grieving. I am lonely. I am not ill. I...

I have held the hands of broken souls whose lives disintegrated, I have stemmed the blood from self-inflicted wounds, paced miles with those on ‘constant obs’ – down endless corridors and countered suicidal arguments with gentlest persuasion.

I want you to see me...work well with me, and open that can of worms. Not to watch you squirm but to help me see. That I am not rotten. That my ‘mental illness’ and my addictions. Are just a symptoms of trauma not forgotten.

Croissant customers with busy faces and skinny latte voices, pourin over choices.. all the noise is darling and delightful – a welcome distraction from the frightful girl who’s sat, on the wrong side of that chair, pursed lips n’ a long downward glare.