Poetry

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.

I keep digging, But just getting deeper, I keep climbing, But the mountain gets steeper, And I question myself, Every single day

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.

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.