I remember hearing 

"bones are for dogs"

"eat a cheeseburger" 

"size 0 is not a size."

I remember over eating,

till I nearly threw up

because all I wanted 

was to be 'normal.'

I remember staring 

at myself in the mirror

with plain disgust

and hate for a body

that never was.

I had hipbones

that jutted out

like pocket knives.

I had ribs that could be felt 

beneath my shirt,

a spine that could 

clearly be defined.

I was called 'anorexic'

'sick' and 'too skinny.'

I grew up listening

to a society who body shamed

some girls, to make the other girls

feel better about themselves.

I have learned to bite my tongue,

when someone said I should be happy

with my body, because I am skinny.

What people don't realize is that

calling a girl 'too skinny' is the

same as calling a girl 'too fat.'

But in this one-sided society,

no one cared about girls like me.

I was constantly bullied by girls

and boys who would never date me

because 'thigh gaps' 'visible collar bones'

and 'hip bones' are unnatural.

But I was born naturally thin.

This poem is for the girls

who felt they were never good enough

because their butts were too bony

and their boobs barely visible.

This is for the girls who 

were taught to be silent.

We are more than the red marks

they left on our wrists,

proclaiming it tiny, as if we didn't already know.

We are more than the number on the scale.

We are more.

This might be a peculiar thing to say,

for all your minds seem to be made the same way.

Your wooden joints

painted to resemble the colour of skin,

skin which is lost so long ago in history books

your life purpose it to try and mimic

this flesh and this strength

that people used to have,

and take it as a mask for your weakness.

But I can see under fine- painted acrylics,

under rotting wooden bone

and movements

that creak.

But we're figurines

with hearts,

whatever mad scientist decided long ago

to implant emotions in this doll body,

and whatever chance of god

that so many of us human prototypes

would survive the operation.

But emotions

are now embedded deep in skin and wood

without the need of anaesthesia.

And we thank those

from the skies

who cursed this land

with us creatures.

Little do you know,

with your sleight of hand

as instinctive as a bated breath,

that the gun you hold in your small fingers

doesn't care

like you do.

It doesn't care

like you do

about sexual orientation

or gender

or beliefs

or stupid things like that

because fear tastes the same

to the mouth of a bullet.

We all bleed the same,

and to the bullets you shoot

and to the gun you hold,

his blood

or her blood

doesn't taste any different.

Fear

isn't poisoned 

by the things you worry so much about.

Stop judging

by differences only your blind, white washed eyes can see.

Your bullet doesn't care.

Blood on wooden joints,

on flesh.

Blood which tastes of fear,

fear like poison.

Your bullet doesn't care.

The fact is fiction is often closer to the truth than what surrounds us on a daily basis.

Every day, we lie to ourselves to avoid facing the discomfort of our anxiety, hurt, and betrayal (just to name a few feelings).

But the art of storytelling can bring those feelings front and centre, forcing us to face them and deal with the truth. In other words, stories help us live again.

I am the hero of my story and you are of yours. But I am also the villain of another story. Perhaps many stories. For I’ve lied, cheated, intentionally harmed, and said “no” to commitments when the cost was high. I’ve been unkind, I’ve said bad things.

And if you’re guilty of these acts, you’ve been the villain, too.

Life is ugly. Life is broken. And therein lies its beauty. We live in a fallen world where redemption lies in being broken. That’s why I write about it. Great stories need darkness. Because it obscures beauty. Sometimes, we need to dive into the darkness to find the beauty life has to offer. That’s where the adventure awaits.

If all art was safe and clean, we’d never see the light. We’d never be saved, never be redeemed.

I tell stories in an attempt to reach the broken, the defeated, and the hopeless. I want to connect with the lost. Because at one point or another, we’ve all been lost.

'Wicked Game' was playing on the radio when I woke up this morning and I thought, 'Why didn't we play that at your funeral?'

When you were a young teenager, you talked to Chris Isaak on the phone on one of those Saturday morning shows for kids. Chris had been a bit flirty with the girl before and Philip Schofield was trying to keep you from talking to him just in case, well, you know. You weren't happy about that because, although you really liked Philip, you loved Chris. It was near Valentine's Day and Chris asked you who you would be sending a Valentine's Day card to. You answered, 'Chris' but it wasn't that Chris, it was another Chris from school. Two Chris's and both unrequited love. 

It was ten years later when you died and it seemed appropriate to play 'Everybody Hurts,' by REM and 'With or Without you,' by U2. They were your current loves. But just think, those beginning notes in that packed crematorium at the end of the service! 

And it was a wicked game we were playing. You collapsing the day before your graduation. You on a life support machine while the graduation was going on. Me holding your cold hand and saying,'You'd be putting your cap and gown on now.'

It was a wicked game when all your newly graduated friends sat in that packed crematorium on that hot day and listened to me talking about you. And your dementia-ridden grandmother knowing she was at a funeral but didn't know who died. And your loyal school friends who are still in contact with me. And me and your dad and your brother.

And it was a wicked game to make us go on living our lives without you. To make us find new ways of living with a big hole, right there, in the middle of us. We've survived but, seventeen years later, it still hurts like hell.

'What a wicked game to play, to make me feel this way.'

Because

                                My

                                                               Daughter 

                                                                                                                        Died

                                                                     !

how

the

hell

should

I 

know

?

Bilbo is 'my' cat. He's a character. He likes to go into the toilet with me so I can stroke him with my feet while I'm on the toilet. He taught me how to stroke him in the correct way. He likes to collect and hide things. He thinks if anyone is standing next to the treat cupboard they should give him a treat. He likes things to be done his way.

Yesterday we bought a cat scratcher from Tesco. It's made up of layers of cardboard and had a pack of cat nip with it. We've never had success with cat scratchers or cat nip before. Bilbo and the other cat, Frodo (sweet but thinks he's Top Cat and bullies Bilbo something chronic), ignore them. I'm always hopeful that one day we'll find the right thing for them.

I waited till they were both sleeping and put the scratcher on the kitchen worktop to add the cat nip. It was in a small packet and thought I'd use it all. Big mistake. First problem, small packet doesn't mean small amount of cat nip. There was tons of it. Second problem, I thought the scratcher had a solid base but when I picked it up there was a pile of cat nip on the worktop.  I thought, I'll put the scratcher where we want it and tidy up the cat nip after. This was a big mistake.

When I returned to the kitchen Bilbo was awake and on the worktop worshipping the cat nip. Sniffing it, licking it, rolling in it. At one point he put his chin on the worktop and pushed himself forward until every possible inch of fur was touching the cat nip.

Frodo turned up. There was a fight. A big fight. Frodo lost which is very rare. I got out some disinfectant wipes and tried to clean the worktop. Managed half of it. Bilbo refused to move. We went out.

Came back two hours later. Bilbo still there. Any stray cat nip had disappeared. Eventually, he moved. Call of nature. We cleaned the other half of the worktop. He had a good sniff of it when he came back but that delicious aroma had gone. He sniffed the air and went off to find the scratcher. He cuddled up to it for a while but then managed to move it so he could lick the fallen cat nip from the carpet. Then he stayed there until we went to bed. He didn't go for his tea and, apart from the odd fight with Frodo, he didn't move.

He has wandered about a little this morning and he ate his breakfast but he's still sticking pretty close to the scratcher. He didn't even come to the toilet with me. I think I've lost 'my' cat to an addiction.