adds infection

to wound

letting go

roughs up soft



jack in the box



door slammed shut

keep out sign hanging on the door knob


panic lives in her chest

winding the jack in the box

anxiety jumps with its

white clown face – screaming

pounding and pounding

stealing another 24 hours


messy bed and unwashed sheets

are left,

twisting and turning around daytime

hair falling out

unwashed face

unbrushed teeth

the rotting of woman


her knuckles start to yellow

and her heart hardens

sagging bags under eyes

droop like grandma’s skin


the dark creases of loneliness

stiffening the body

wide awake with the night

holding hands with one another

skipping over cracks in the sidewalk

nails painted black

chipped and scratched


her toes get caught in the traps

left out for squirming mice

the tight pinch of reality is just a slap across the face

the handprint screaming red over her right cheek

shapeshifter (poem)



you sharpened

your words with

      a knife

dug deep into me


the bathtub,

fills with my


clogs the drain


I drown in  

 your dirty hands

your rough and

 sharp touch


you scrape off my tears

off with your

rusty   finger nails

bruising the bags

under my eyes


On destruction


you carved your initials

into my chapped lips

Stripped me down to

You’re deathly standard.

what goes unexplained



It’s a better story if i talk about

Finding flowers in open wounds

If i say it’s alright

If i tell you that i’m better now

That i can see the different

shades of morning again

Like i used to

Or if i talk about the spinning head demons

Running circles but there isnt really anything

Poetic about this pain

I cant make this a pretty ending.

Tragically Ill: The story of two sisters

“I had to do it,” She said, “I hope you understand, it had to be me.”

She gripped her wrist tightly, the dark red blood wouldn’t stop and I don’t think she wanted it to. Her face has gone pale, her eyes are so far away now. I carry her down the stairs and scream at mom and dad.

“CALL 911!!” Without a second question, I hear dad dial the numbers and I sit with my frail sister. You wouldn’t be able to tell that she’s two years older than me. She is barely a body. Years of depriving herself has made her this way. I curse Anorexia’s name every night, for trying to take my beautiful sister away.  I keep the pressure on her open wound and move the delicate blonde strands of hair away from her eyes. I know she’s still here when she smiles her sad smile at me. A tear trickles down her cheek,  and I wipe it away.

Why do you keep doing this to us!!!? Dad screamed so sharply.

“Shut up, Dad,” My eyes are fierce with anger and disgust when I stare back at him. He paces around the living room in panic and fear. Instability runs so deeply in this family.

“It’s going to be okay”, I say. But I don’t know that it will. Once the ambulance gets to our house, they take her out of my arms and rush her to the hospital. I never know when or if i’ll get to see her again.

When Jessie goes into the hospital It’s a long time before I can see her again. It feels like years sometimes, I know that it isn’t that long. But it sure does feel like it.  Sometimes she comes back and there is more life in her eyes. Her smile is back to its playful self at times, but it’s just a matter of time before it disintegrates. They won’t let me go see her when she’s in such bad shape. Mom and dad don’t want me to see her so broken and so deathly hopeless. I think it’s because they think I’ll end up like her. Lying on hospital bed being fed through a tube. Pumping life back into my body. What they don’t realize is I feel what she feels, I think those dreadful thoughts too. The difference is that I can still hide it in my journal and in slight cuts on my upper thigh.

Monday still came with a roaring fist to my gut. The constant Beep-Beep-Beep of my alarm clock tells me that I’m supposed to get up and get ready for school. I’d rather just lay here, safe under my covers. The soft warmth of Jessie’s sweater reminds me of her glow and presence, so I get up and pretend that everything is okay. Even if it’s the exact opposite. Once I come downstairs, Dad is rushing off to work and shouts Goodbye. Mom kisses my cheek as I bite into a piece of burnt toast.

“bye sweetie,” the words are frozen and stale as she closes the door shut. I’m expected to make my own way to school. Walk, ride my bike or take the bus. I take my precious time. School doesn’t really seem to matter so much when everything else seems to be crumbling around you. I need to see her. I don’t care if my parents find out. But I’m going to see her, I have to. I take Bus 22 to the hospital and walk to the intensive care centre. I walk past the coughing smokers, with my head lowered to the ground. Avoiding eye contact. I enter through the automatic doors. Following the signs and the colour coded lines on the floor.

I walk to reception.

“Hi, Ms Owen..”

“You know i’ve known you and your sister long enough, You can call me Amy.”

Before I can say anything else she notices that I’m crying. She gets up out of her chair and tells me to come in. She opens her arms and hugs me so tightly I can barely breathe. But It feels good. My mother doesn’t even hug me like that. “She is a fighter. And My dear, so are you.” She grabs my hand the way I would take my dad’s hand when we would go into home depot together. Guiding the way to what is Jessie’s room. She has Tinkerbell stickers on the wall and her notebook and pen sits on the table next to her bed. Jessie rolls over onto her side, her eyelids flutter, adjusting to the light. I climb into bed beside her. She takes up so little space It makes me so sad and afraid. Before I know it she could just vanish. Disappear completely. I put my arm around her and hold onto her cold hand. She squeezes my finger tips tightly. We both cry. Our cries are quiet but painful. We fall asleep. Into a deep, gratifying sleep.

Suicide vs. Self Harm

A lot of people mix these two up quite a bit. Suicide and Self Harm are two different things.

If someone self harms it does not mean that they want to die – It is not an attempt to kill themselves. It’s been said that Self Harm can lead to suicide. But this does not mean that they are the same thing. It can seem that these two things are directly related. Most of the time, it is the only thing that is helping them cope and stay alive. Although, they could have suicidal thoughts.

For instance, Someone who cuts, can get an immediate sense of relief and release. In which they cannot get from anything else in their life.  In my experience, when having suicidal thoughts and end up self harming it isn’t an attempt to kill myself, it is simply a way of coping with the thoughts. A way of silencing them. Though, there are better ways to deal with those thoughts. This is why talking to a professional like a therapist or a counsellor is so important. Even reaching out to a trusted friend, family member or even a teacher can be very helpful as well because they can help connect you with the right support. It is also one of the most hardest and most bravest things you can do.

Parents of someone who may self harm could be in shock and out of fear say things to their child that may be very unhelpful and invalidating. We need to talk openly about these issues so that there is a safe place for the ones who are suffering to speak out about getting help without being judged or misunderstood. It is important that people who are struggling with self harm know that they are supported and that they are understood by those around them. Which is not always an easy thing to truly believe. Often, teenagers who self harm are paranoid that nobody cares about them, that they are unworthy of love and care. It feels like nobody understands and no one really “gets” it. Making them feel more ashamed can end up triggering more self harming thoughts, too.

Statements like “why are you doing this to yourself?”, “how could you do that to yourself”, “doesn’t it hurt?”, “Just stop” are very unhelpful and hurtful in the end. People also link Emo with self harm and cutting. Most often these individuals do not understand self harm and therefor judge someone when they do not have the knowledge about the subject at hand.

toxic instinct

Photo taken in Europe.
Photo taken in Europe

addiction looks

like the

knife gleaming

in his hand

preparing the

dinner we

used to have every

night as a family. 

every lonely night that

reminded me

that addiction

is another kind of kill.

another kind

of destruction

stitched into

pretty lies of

my demise.

all the brown

eyes looking

down to the filled

plate that shame

told me not to eat.

Each chopping

motion, fast

in a hurry.

i cant remember what

i am talking about

the meal preparation


my skin?

the freshly

cleaned carrots

or my arms

or my thighs.


pressing pause


fast forward

rewind or repeat.

only now the

ghosts resemble

faults or futures

weighing down

like hammocks

beneath my

heavy eyes.