Choose (your) peace.

Do not use

the stones

that were

thrown

at

you,

as

ammunition.

You,

can be

a strong

and

peaceful place.

If

you

choose

to be.

— Choose (your) peace.

When a friendship dies.

i stood before

you,

holding my fears in

cupped hands;

a petition

for mercy.

and still,

you would not cross

the naked divide

between me,

and

you.

and so i walked

away.

.

.

Your peace is worth more than losing yourself in order to repair a fractured relationship.

When you have scars from deep hurts and you expose them to another person in the hopes of receiving compassion, and they (still) walk all over your sacrifice; walk away dear friend.

Life is full of beautiful souls who will see your scars and honour them for the battles you have been through.

Fat.

feel

the weight

of the word

in your mouth,

before you set it free

to cling to the skin

of another.

sometimes,

the smallest words

are the

heaviest

to carry.

—fat.

This poem is deeply personal.

Years ago I battled bulimia.

I have, ever since I can remember, been in a constant struggle to accept my body. Many of my poems reflect this, and the healing that I have since found, but the battle always rages within—anyone recovered from an eating disorder will tell you the same.

Today, I am deeply passionate about body-positivity and appreciating bodies of all sizes and shapes. I exercise because I love the feeling and I eat to be healthy.

My spirit was bent out of shape from the very first time I was called ‘fat’—I was about 5 years old, and that word followed me for most of my formative years.

When others stopped; I continued calling myself ‘fat’.

F a t.

It is such a small word, isn’t it? And yet, it is a heavy word to carry.

It marks you.

Leaves you standing there—naked under the scrutiny of the one who flung it your way.

I have so much to write on this topic. So, so much, but just for tonight—this—take care with this word. Feel its weight before you allow it to cling to the skin of another.

Or, yourself.

Walk a mile.

I was going to

tell

you

how to walk

this road,

but then I found

that

your shoes

didn’t fit

me.

—Walk a mile.

Shadows.

You say that I speak of (my) darkness too much.

With my heart stripped bare before your eyes,

I stand,

my shadows a gift for the

searching ones.

Don’t you know that light that shines too brightly,

blinds?