I need you to lay
beside me. Stroke
my back and caress
my soul. I need you
to speak with you
eyes and keep your
lips silent. I need you
to make me forget the
rest of the world and
the problems that
exist outside of
this bed. For the
time we are lying
here I need us to be
the only two people
in existence. I need 
everything else
to fade away with
every blink of your
comforting eyes.


A life should not
be spent trying
to become the richest, or the
thinnest, or the most
well known. 

A life should not
be spent purging one’s
self of empathy, love
and warmth;
and bingeing on
followers, and unattainable

Because at the
end of the day
and at the end of
the world,

our bones will
all decay the same.


The notion that you 
must be “good enough”
for someone else
will lead you down dark paths. 

It will lead you to
men who will hurt,
use and undermine you. 

It will lead you to
meals unfinished and
a weight that is never low enough

It will lead you to
jobs that do not
value or fulfill you. 

It will lead you to
nights alone with
nothing but wine and tears.

It will lead you to
fresh wounds at the surface
and wounds never tended to at the core.

It will lead you to 
being fearful of
living a full life. 

It will lead you to
reflections of yourself
that you do not like or recognize. 

You are uniquely you
and so full of potential;
once you realize you are “good enough”
for you, 
the rest of your world will follow.

Stolen Innocence

They stamp us with it when we are born;

The world forces it on us as newborns
and then it is stolen away.

They say that people are products of their environments;
but I say we are products of events.

The world laughs at innocence
before they rob us of it.

They watch us jump through hoops,
only to become jaded.

They find humour in our shortcomings,
and relish insecurities.

They wait until we are on the edge
and watch as we become hardened.

They this –
they that. 

Why do we let them
define who we are?
Why do we let them
steal from us?

Comfort in the Broken

The pen was my
that fought through my scariest

Pages were my
when the world became too

Fictitious characters were my
when real people seemed

My messy, loopy
made more sense than straight and narrow

Stories of broken down
had a beautiful way of making me feel


Why do we raise
our daughters to
fear fat,
dread stretch marks,
to feel unease at the thought
of cellulite,
and to crave bones and breasts –
all over intellect and

Why do we raise
our sons to
believe that women
should be insecure
and submissive?

Why do we raise
our children this way
and then question how
they became these people?


They told us
that if the boys
were mean to us

it meant they liked us. 

So from a when I was
a small flower not yet bloomed
I equated lust
and love to desire

and meanness. 

The first time 
he called me stupid,
and yelled in my face

I thought it was love. 

The first time 
he told me that I
was worthless

I accepted it as normal. 

When he called 
me fat
I thought it was normal
and I made myself believe 

he meant it in a good way.

When he threw
things and got angry
and scared me,

I thought it was because he cared about me.

When he tore
me down
to bits of nothingness and
ripped my petals off of me

I told myself that he was mean because he loved me.

If they had told me
that boys being mean
to girls
was wrong,
and that true love
lets you bloom to your
full flowery potential

maybe I would have walked away sooner.