A poem I wrote recently. It’s so personal I feel a little vulnerable sharing it {I’ve actually been sitting here unable to press publish for ages!}, but I do believe the more vulnerable it feels the more universally true it is. And it’s good to push your own boundaries a bit sometimes.

july 9


At first you ARE the wound

Bloody and weeping

Raw and ragged at the edges.

You bump against the thoughts that reopen you

That break you open before the healing can begin

You feel you are dying. You are, partly.


All efforts to comfort

Inside and out

Are plasters.

Achingly inadequate.

The endless strings of words loop and tangle

Oceans pour from you

Until you wonder if somewhere a sea has dried up

Just to keep the world in balance.


Time passes.

You walk forward.

Up and out like a child climbing stairs

One, one, two, and again.

The edges soften.

The wound becomes a bruise

Sometimes you knock it accidentally

And spend some time back in the memory of dying.


Sometimes you poke it

Experimentally, hopefully.

Some days the pain is a shock. Aren’t I past this?

Other days it’s like touching air


It fades to a soft yellow

Until one day you realise

The pain has evaporated

Leaving a tiny scar

In the shape of a heart.