Why I write.

i sing

my song

of hope

to the world.

a sweet

lullaby

for

the broken ones.

shhhh.

listen.

your healing

is coming.

—why i write.

On turning the pain of loss, into healing.

loss,

has carved

pain

into

my bones.

but,

it filled

my mouth

with

songbirds.

—On turning the pain of loss, into healing.

On feeding pain.

and what of

this hunger

that weeps

in my belly,

but lives in my

my soul.

it took me a lifetime

to realise that food

only quiets the ache;

never satisfies it.

—On feeding pain.

Know the difference.

Lust,

is an incandescent

invertebrate;

a brief, consuming inferno

with no appetite

for hardship.

Love,

straightens her spine,

cups her hands around

the brokenness,

and stays.

—Know the difference.

On raising a boy.

I rub

gentleness

into your skin

every day,

so that the one

who loves you

one day,

does not have

to peel back

the layers,

to find your heart.

—On raising a boy.

I do not fit into a box.

it took

me

a lifetime to realise

that it is perfectly

ok

to walk away from

the people

who would bruise

the soft roundness

of me,

with their

square boxes.

—I do not fit into a box.

Raw.

With every

word

that I write,

I remove

another

layer of skin.

One day,

I shall

find myself

again.

—Raw.