A smile from ear to ear,

Eyes filled with life,

Her heart overflowing with love,

Dressed to perfection,

She couldn’t look happier,

That’s the plan though, isn’t it?

Another little game,

Nobody would ever suspect,

She was wearing a mask,

All of it – a lie,

Stripped back,

Look closer,

The smile begins to crack,

Eyes red raw,

A heart struggling to beat,

Mask unraveling,

Piece by piece,

Finally seeing what’s underneath,

Something so unbearable,

A person so close to dying,

A person so close to giving up,

Stop playing,

Stop acting,

Nobody believes such a childish act,

The moment people began treating her differently,

She knew her mask had faded,

Game over.

(Time to change masks).


Write Where It Hurts.

Write Where It Hurts,

That’s what they say, isn’t it?

After all, with hurt comes emotions, buckets full of them. Raining, no, pouring down, enough to fill oceans. Oceans filled with these waves, all carrying different feelings, different thoughts, different emotions… and worst of all, different kinds of hurt. One after the other they begin to consume you, just when you come up for air the next one hits, followed by another, and another. Crashing down on top of you, weighing you down, no, holding you down.

Waves filling every aching part of your body with the worst kinds of pain, the kind that buries itself in your bones, the kind that you can never shake. So you begin to write, after all that’s what they say, write where it hurts, its meant to help, so here I am trying it. I am writing where it hurts, I am writing about every single wave that’s knocking me back, every wave that’s consuming me and filling my body with so much pain.

Yet, I still feel like I’m drowning, maybe it’s just me, or maybe its not as simple as they say it is. At the end of the day there’s always exceptions to the rule, so I ask this, one simple question~

What happens when it all hurts?

When every single part of your body aches, as you try to crawl inside yourself in an attempt to shudder the pain, as you take a blade to your skin in an attempt to erase the pain, as you fill oceans with tears trying to erase the pain that has become you. Attempt after attempt, failure after failure.

So here we stand,

All here to write our own stories, our own forms of ‘hurt’, in an attempt to express ourselves, to get something off our chest, to ease that aching feeling inside of us. We are all just writing where it hurts, because that’s the only way we know how to cope, but what happens when that isn’t enough, when you’ve written books full of hurt and come back with more pain than ever before.

What happens when writing isn’t enough?

What happens when the pain hits you like an ocean?

What happens when the waves begin dragging you down?

What happens when you run out of air?

And most importantly,

What the hell happens when it all hurts?



Here I stand,

In another crowded place,

Day after day,

As it fills with smiles,



Suddenly silence hits,

The room,


They all turn to face me,

Waiting for my offering,

Nothing comes out,

I began feeling the way I always do,



Not good enough,

And left with nothing,

Alone again,

“Don’t worry,” I whisper,

Loneliness feels like home.


“Don’t cry.”


“Don’t cry,” I whisper.

Again and Again,

As if it will help.

Holding back tears,

“Don’t cry,” I say.

Crying invites weakness,

Weakness invites demons,

Demons invite nightmares,

An inescapable form of hell.

“Don’t cry,” I demand,

Nightmares consuming me,

Sadness becoming me,

Hold tight,

Hold on,

Trying to fight it.


“Don’t cry,” they whisper,

Noticing your sadness,

Sensing your weakness,

Smelling your demons,

Already in tears,

They know.

You were always weak,

Too late,

Tears filling your eyes,

“Don’t cry,” they say,


Tears becoming you,

Overwhelming you,

As you begin to drown.

“Don’t cry,” they demand,

Drop my drop,

Falling deeper and deeper,


(As if anyone could save you).


10th July 2016 – The day your body gave up.


I don’t like talking about.

I never talk about.

I have tried to avoid it as much as possible.

Yet I can’t stop thinking about it.

Day 3 in hospital, lying there in a coma, my mother, a beautiful women, a courageous women, a women who fought the most incredible battle. Each night I would stay till midnight, go home and sleep, then return early the next morning.

Yet this night was different, I felt almost compelled to stay, so I did, along with two of my cousins. We sat there telling stories, holding her hand, reminiscing of all the incredible memories we had experienced together.

Holding her cold lifeless hand, tears began streaming down my face as the light inside slowly dimmed, I kept wishing for her to wake up. We all did. She always came round, she was a fighter, and she was a survivor.

That night,

Her breathing grew shallower,

The room shuddering with silence,

Not a word was said,

This crippling silence was enough,

We all knew.

Grabbing her hand tighter and whispering in her ear, trying to fight back tears I told her how much I loved her, how much I will always need her and how much I was going to miss her.

Inhale, Exhale, Inhale.

Watching a body filled with so much life slowly drift away,

Within minutes she was gone,

A life snatched away within seconds.

(2:40am~ our time of death.)


Empty Happiness.


With depth comes happiness,

So you go deeper,

Deeper and deeper,

Digging for happiness,

“Deeper,” you demand,

Skin breaking,

Blood rushing through your veins,

Overflowing your body,

Pouring out,

Deeper you demand,

The deeper you go the sadder you feel,

Searching for happiness,

“Deeper,” you demand,

You keep going,

Further and further,

Blood rushing out,

Filling oceans,

Sadness consuming you,

So you dig deeper,

Searching for happiness,

“Deeper,” you demand,

And with depth comes blood,

Tearing your skin apart,

You were never searching for happiness,

“Deeper,” you demand,

Until you can’t dig anymore,

Eyes fading,

Breathe slowing,

No more sadness,

No more happiness,

No more anything,

Drop the blade,

You’ve gone deep enough.


No More Easter Egg Hunts.


Easter, a holiday my family always treasured. My mother going to extremes in order to make us happy every year and no matter how old we became, we still got excited.

The routine went as such ~

We woke up in the morning to a soft toy and a chocolate by our beds; the first toy I ever got became my best friend for the next 10 years till he began falling apart. I cherished every toy she left on that bed, and as she became sick the toys began bringing something with them, almost some form of hope. If we could make it to one Easter, we could sure as hell make it to the next and that was worth celebrating.

The celebration would continue with breakfast, homemade pancakes, bacon eggs, everything you could possibly want and more. A spread fit for three queens I thought. This tradition slowly changed as mum became sicker, I began taking over, and she would lie in bed that little bit longer, still recovering from her previous chemotherapy. So I would wake up early, cook breakfast as best I could and bring it to her in bed, where we would all share in each other’s company, all happy we had made it to another Easter.

After breakfast, we invited the whole family round and Mum would run her world famous ‘Easter egg hunt.’ A tradition I begged her to keep every year, almost becoming more excited, as I got older. What I loved most was seeing the joy in her eyes when we started running round the house finding them, while at the same time what was brining me joy was the fact she was happy. We were almost doing it for each other. Who knew something so trivial could give us such hope.

Following the famous hunt we all sat down to dinner, another feast for all the familiar faces we brought into our house. Everyone happy to be together. Everyone just excited about making another Easter.

So there you have it, a world famous day for our family, one I loved celebrating, even if our reasons were slightly different to others. Easter is coming around again, only a few days away, and this Easter I feel myself almost lost. Scrambling with ideas, trying to piece small bits together, so I could attempt to continue the tradition, or at least some of it, as Mum would have wanted.

But this Easter is not the same, for we will no longer be celebrating, as Mum didn’t make it to this Easter. We had no idea at the time, but last Easter would be her last, it would be the end of all our traditions, no more toys at the end of the bed, no more breakfast fit for queens, no more family dinners, no more feelings of joy, and…

…No more Easter egg hunts.