my fault: a poem


It was my fault.
Dark red. On my lips. On my nails. On my thighs.

It was my fault.
Dark red. Sound of my pleas. Aura around his skin.

It was my fault.
Dark red. Blood under my nails. Beating of my heart.


His eyes, dark green. So calm, peaceful.
Turned into lust, malice.

His muscular, gentle hands.
Wrapped around my throat, tugging at my dress.

What hurts more than my body
is that I still found him so beautiful.


Sickly sweet smell of his breath.
Salty from sweat. Like the ocean.

I close my eyes. I am the ocean.
Vast. Calm. Strong.

The waves crash inside of me.
He is done. It was my fault.

Salty from tears, I taste them as they trickle. I am the ocean.
Deep. Troubled.


He said I wanted this.
It was my dark lips. Dark nails. The feel of my thighs.

I wanted this.
Arch in my back. Curl of my fingers. Hunger in my eyes.

I wanted this.
My words said no. My body said yes.


It was my fault.

He told me I wanted it.

It was what I wore.

What I said.

How I laughed.

It was my fault.


It was my fault.
That’s what he said.
It was my fault.


It is my fault.
Lying on the cold, hard floor.

Scrubbing at my skin.
Red raw. Erasing the memories.

For the reason. For the broken pieces of my heart.


An aching heart, shaking hands.
I held a piece of my broken soul.

A tear fell, a cry escaped.
I could not let it go.

I kissed it hard, I kept it safe.
Waiting, patiently. For a home within my heart.


It was my fault.
I am naked, scared, alone.
It is cold, I am weak. It still hurts.


everything happens for a reason

Fuck sake. This was up there with one of the hardest to write. I started it, and erased it, and wrote almost exactly the same introduction, and erased it again.

Everything happens for a reason.

There it is. Simultaneously one of the most comforting — and most terrifying — thoughts to try and make sense of this weird little world we live in.

I put an Instagram poll up (side note: how bloody good are polls), on both rackoool and, asking whether people believe everything happens for a reason. Frankly, I was shocked with the answer.

I’ve never been sure which side I sit on. I’m sitting here thinking: there’s some sort of comforting thought that the fates are actually deciding what’s happening to me; that while I ultimately make my decision, there is a path I am meant to follow. But then I go, hold up a fucking second; how can we justify this? How do we explain the famine, hatred, war, anger, death in the world? Because it was meant to happen?

Admittedly, after the very trialling year I have had, I am starting to truly believe it. That while you do decide your own destiny, there are reasons for the things that happen. If you search for them.

So, on this fateful day, 16th February 2018, I wrote;

“Does everything happen for a reason?”

And the results were as follows:

76% Yes. (79 people)
24% No. (25 people)

78% Yes. (42 people)
22% No. (12 people)

I thought it was somewhat eery that both polls ended with close to the same percentages. And, not surprisingly, I find a similarity between almost every person who voted no.

These are people who have dealt with significant deaths within the past few years of their life (majority being a parent).

There’s no coincidence in that. Hell, I was one of those people for the most part of the past four years. It would make my skin crawl when I would talk of losing my mum and uncle within the space of four months, and people would say, “oh, well, you know — everything happens for a reason.”

And it was all I could do not to yell in their face asking what in the hell that goddamn reason was. (Even, admittedly, the death of my dog two years later. Broke my lil heart that did).

But here it is: while, yes, I believe everything happens for reason. I do not believe this gives you justification for treating others like shit, nor justifying questionable decisions of yours.

I’m not sure how many of you have read The Husbands Secret by Liane Moriarty (and if you haven’t, you should — I read the entire thing in one day because I could not put it down), but her epilogue touches on something similar in such an eloquent way. She writes of all the things that could have been, had her characters all chosen to do something different; the paths their lives would have gone down. What could have been, what should have been. But, simply, what wasn’t.

Overanalysing is a trait I think many of us share, but only few of us are willing to admit to. I am chronic. Stress and anxiety eat me up because I start to overthink the smallest things; where my life is headed, why they said that, why my heart beats so fast when I’m trying to make a phone call, why I have a small pain in my stomach (pregnancy, obviously, even when I know it’s certainly not possible). But I recently opened up to those close to me about the way my overthinking has actually helped me; because I’ve come to understand (or, perhaps just search for), the reasons things happened.

There are many paths I could take you all down, and I could write a series of blog posts on the way things have worked out because of something that happened then and this happened because of and this is why and that and this and… you get the gist. I could go wild with it. But I figure there should be some humility and secrets left out (I know, this is not what you signed up for); you will all be able to read about it in a few years’ time when I write a novel about it, I’m sure.

Every opportunity that has opened itself up to me within the last year, specifically the past few months, would not have happened if my head wasn’t in the space it was. A poetry ebook (available here) would not have been written if I was not lost so far in my head that I found no way out except for writing the thoughts down into prose; thus, opening doors I could not imagine.

Hang on a second; is this me being some sort of thankful for a spiral of depression?

Perhaps it is.

The people who are meant to be in your life will find their way there; you were hurt before because life was showing you you still had an immense capacity to care. You unintentionally hurt someone else because life was trying to show you how to have empathy and consideration for others. Understanding this does not always bring you a sense of calm; there are still moments I am yelling at nothing, and everything, because it’s not fucking fair and why would you treat someone like that? And, most of all; what in the world did I do to deserve this heavy hurt on my heart?

Life is and always will be unpredictable; perhaps everything does happen for a reason. Some people search hard for those reasons just to feel a little comfort, and that is okay. The person you love did not die because they had to die; in most ways it feels as if their chapter was not finished, in your life and in theirs. But the person you love did die.

They did everything on this earth to make sure you knew of their love for you and that is why it hurts you so terribly. And here is your reason: To show them what their love could do; to prove to yourself what your own love is capable of. To live, and love, and laugh until you piss yourself; to cry and scream and some days truly hate the world, and other days, wrap yourself in the wonders of the world.

Everything, in some way or another, happens for a reason — this does not mean it’s fair, this does not mean it’s okay; but trust in your heart you will find your way. And if you’re screaming at your screen right now, complaining that what I have said just doesn’t make sense because WHY DID THIS HAPPEN?! 

Look no further than your heart — do you care enough that this is happening? Yes? Then what are you doing to change the world for the better? Where is your hand in helping someone else so they do not have to know, or see, or do, what you have? What are you doing to make this world better?


inner body experience

I don’t know how transcendent an experience you can have at 10:30pm on a Saturday night, tucked up in bed with your head stuck in a book. I don’t know how real this experience of mine was, or if it’s the pure exhaustion my soul is currently feeling at play. I don’t know if it’s the unfamiliarity of the room I am sitting in as I housesit, listening to god awful music playing from a house near here when I am used to dead silence (or the run of rats feet on my ceiling). I don’t know.

But I am sitting here, and I am reading; is it important what I am reading? Perhaps it is, perhaps the book is what made it happen. For a little ambiguity, though, I’ll leave that out.

I had this moment. I have always been oddly calm living where I live. On the many nights being alone, when every member of my family is partaking in a social life and I am happily sitting at home, I have never once thought something bad would happen. Friends would disagree; our house scares them, there’s lots of windows and they’ve seen too many horror movies — our house is a movie directors dream. I’ve always felt more scared sleeping in a house in town, near neighbours, but closer for people to get to you.

So I heard weird sounds, and I looked up from my book and looked straight into the mirror. I stared at the face I know so well, my own; and this familiar face stared back at me but I got shivers down my spine. A voice (mine, no doubt) popped into my head, and said “this is what you are afraid of.”

An out of body experience internalised. An inner body experience, if you will.

The face I know so well was simultaneously my most comforting thing to look at, and the thing that scared me the most. The fear I feel for everything; life, love, death, lack of success and finding no purpose in life. It all circles back to one thing. The thing staring at me in the mirror.

While this is one of the most profound moments of my life, I’m sure many of you are just thinking — “girl, you’ve had a big couple of days. Have a good night sleep and you’ll stop being so weird in the morning.”

But jokes on them, I don’t ever stop being weird.

Everything you are afraid of in life circles back to a little part of you. Stops you from running free, from ending it with that toxic, shitty person, from starting your business or writing your thoughts or moving away from home; from doing what the very heart of you wants to do. Your ego. And while I stared at my face, at the accidental-toomuchtoner-purpled hair, and the very face I have come to love; I felt my ego try to knock me out of place. It doesn’t want to be caught out. It doesn’t want you to realise that your fears are your own manifestation. But they are.

This could purely be the exhaustion speaking. But the exhaustion is right. I am afraid of never being good enough; that does not come from the potential murderer, the flight that goes wrong, the faulty car, nor the actual act of being rejected. I am afraid of never being good enough because my ego tells me I am never going to be good enough; as it feeds off insecurities, doubts and self-hatred.

Everything I could ever be afraid of is staring at me in the mirror. And the only thing to fix it is the very same.