day 100

One hundred days since I started writing.
How much has changed in one hundred days?

One hundred days ago,
I was working in a job that made me miserable,
I was in a relationship that wasn’t making me happy and I didn’t know what to do about it,
I was relatively healthy –
or at least I didn’t know how sick I was.

Now I am in a new job,
and I am struggling but I leave each day happy.
I left that relationship and discovered my propensity for cruelty
and my complete lack of empathy.
I started chemotherapy and had an ovary removed
and I have come to terms with the fact
that nothing will go back to how it was
and that’s okay.

One hundred days ago,
I decided to stop screaming into the void
and start whispering into a crowded room.

I learned to be my own summer.


“Oh wow!
What do they all mean?”

A common question asked
when people find out
that I am tattooed.
But contrary to popular belief,
tattoos do not have to mean anything.
A few of mine have meanings;
the banana for my dad
(his favourite fruit),
the shaking hands for my brother
(shaking hands traditionally means trust),
the flowers for my miscarriages,
the flame and paper aeroplane.
The rest are just ones I found cute
or aesthetically pleasing.

That being said,
I tend to get tattoos
when I am struggling
with change
or feeling out of control.
The pain grounds me,
keeps me tethered to reality,
a socially acceptable form
of self-harm.
The finished tattoo
reminds me that
this is my body
and I will decorate it
as I see fit.


I found pictures
of you and me
from a different time.
You looked so happy.
Not so much.
The hollow smile,
the shadow of a black eye…

I do not like these pictures,
but I no longer want to die
when I see them.

I will still burn them though.

is there such a thing as a “good person” anyway?

Maybe I am a terrible person
Maybe I have spent so long
avoiding my problems
that I failed to realise
that I am the problem
and now I have too many problems
to overcome.
I never thought I was selfish
but truthfully
I didn’t care enough
to recognise
how selfish I was being.
I have hurt so many people
through caring about my own interests
and completely disregarding theirs.
I know I have so much I need to explain
but I cannot find the motivation
to work out the words needed.
Maybe what I’ve heard is right,
maybe I am a bad person,
maybe I would be better off alone.
Maybe it’s because I learned
that love came with broken bones
and I never allowed anyone
to teach me any different
so how can I love like you want?
Maybe I am just making excuses.
Maybe I could try a little harder.
Maybe I don’t want to.