I gave you pieces of me every time I let you inside me, feeding the emptiness inside you and filling the voids you never knew you had and when it was time for me to take the part of you that you had promised me, you shut the door and told me that I shouldn’t have made a home out of you. 

You took the parts of me I gave to you, all the beautiful bits I shared with you and you analysed them and broke them into pieces and presented me with the flaws you had found in me.  Instead of getting pieces of you, I got all the things you didn’t enjoy about me, and I can’t even be mad, because I let you take them.  I let you into me and I gave you all the pieces I had reserved for myself.

There is more than one way to break someone. You didn’t have to lay your hands on me or climb into another woman for you to break me.  I was watching us from across the room and for a split second I didn’t recognize the girl looking at you.  I hated how pathetic she looked with her eyes full of remorse.  As I watched her I remembered who the fuck I am.  I know who I am, I knew who I was before you knew me.  It’s unfortunate that it will never be enough for you.

How many times will the person you love tell you all the reasons they don’t like you before you stop liking yourself?



I hurl all my fears and anxieties at you on a Monday morning on my way to work, you catch them in a manner that seems almost effortless, fold them neatly and put them in a safe space.

On Saturday morning I look at you and smile.  We make funny faces at each other instead of saying good morning and I look for pieces of me that your eyes keep stealing.

On Thursday night I propose to you.


You look up.

“Marry me”

You tell me I’m too demanding and we laugh it off.

On a Sunday morning with smoke in your lungs, I’m writing my vows to you in my head – “I like your face” – I seem to get stuck there, so instead I weave fairy tales from my memory.  The universe pauses for a second as your eyes light up and as if to make up for lost time it speeds up, right past me and I struggle to hold onto the moment.

“My favourite colour used to be pink, until the first boy I loved broke my heart, now I don’t do favourites anymore”.  I smile at you on a Friday night, you taste the lies on my lips, because even as I say it I think about how your lips might be my new favourite thing.

Tuesdays are the worst days of the week.

I wake up.

I reach out.

I touch nothing.

You aren’t there.

I see your face as I walk in, you’re new. It’s a Wednesday afternoon and the air smells of death and smoke.  The universe does a backflip out of excitement, we lose our balance and end up next to each other.  We touch accidently and my body moves, like the wind has been knocked out of me, but in a good way.

“Hi, my name is…”

I fall into you.


“One day the person you love will wake up and not love you anymore, and you will have to be okay with that”I want you to know that you will be forgotten, like stories told between four-year old’s and I am okay with that. You the one who I loved like the sun loves the morning star – they never told you about their love affair. He runs away every morning when she rises. She catches glimpses of him and left over light cause he doesn’t want to be there with her anymore. They never told you about their love affair.In the beginning, there was he and she was made for him. She was crafted from him, to suit only him. His hands knew how to hold hers. This love, we were all told about, but they never told us what would happen if there were 8 billion of us and finding the one that knows how to hold your hand gets just a little more complicated. I mean its’s 8 billion to 1. Finding the one you’re supposed to reach the end with seems doable, so you send all your love with the wind to the one of your dreams. Your wishes of finding them floats on fairy tales and stories long forgotten. So, when you find something that seems to mimic the love shared by the sun and the morning star, before he forgot her, you pour yourself into it. You give completely, you love relentlessly. Until one day the person you love wakes up and decides that they don’t love you anymore. “I loved you on days when you couldn’t love yourself and that is a lot of love to just let go of” –  that’s how your story ends. Like forgotten stories, told around fires on cold nights, by forgotten people.

Angry, Feminist 

I have had the misfortune of meeting many men who have had the misguided idea that they are smarter than I am.  One of those happens to be a man I had a great deal of respect for, that is until he tried to downplay the woman in me.  He made it his job to make sure that every sentence I uttered or typed where I stood up for myself and what I believe in he would try and deconstruct and break down, not only my words but also my beliefs and my self-worth.  This beautiful man, who towered over most, not only physically, but mentally too, could not see the brain that I nurtured for so many years, behind my beauty.  
Too often I have encountered men who think that I am just another pretty face, because the idea of a “yellow-bone” (as they call me) with the mind of a grown, independent, strong, intelligent woman seemed to confuse these men.  These men who believe that my conversations are limited to the “new shoes I bought” or “what my friend did or didn’t do” because the idea of someone who looks like me reciting poetry or knowing stats and facts of the top of my head seems unrealistic.  
This man, who I admired so much, spent his time trying to convince me that I was nothing more than a heartbroken little girl, who couldn’t see the bigger picture.  Because heaven forbid anyone in the room was smarter than him.  To him I was nothing more and nothing less than a pretty face, who happened to learn the word “feminist” and would utter it every once in a while, not really sure of the meaning.  Not really sure of the magnitude, something he wouldn’t hesitate to ask me “do you even know what it means?” and before I could answer he would tell me “you don’t know, you’re just bitter cause you have a broken heart”.  Because my angry little heart and pretty little face left no room for my pretty little brain to grow.  
I’m still angry and I’m still a feminist and I’m still learning.  I hope one day you start to learn too.

Angry Feminist, Not Misandrist 

​*A Feminist: A person (male or female) who believes that men and women should be equal on a social, political and economic level.   

*A Misandrist: A person (male or female) who despises or is strongly prejudiced against men. 

These two terms represent two completely different believe systems and they speak to two completely different approaches to the way we view men in society.  Now look, I’m a proud feminist, to quote the late Maya Angelou: “I’m a feminist. I’ve been a female for a long time now. It’d be stupid not to be on my own side”.  

As human beings we change and evolve everyday and with that change a change in mindset happens, our beliefs evolve and our frame of reference expands.  
I recently had the misfortune of meeting a man, who strongly believed that I do not have the proper mindset to be feminist, because as he says: “you have a broken heart and you’re bitter so you can’t possibly be a feminist”.  On a random Saturday morning we were having a discussion on the man bashing tendencies women have online and how it has somehow turned into a way of bullying men.  Yes I agree that some women take it too far.  What I don’t agree with is them hiding behind the “feminist flag” to fuel their agenda of breaking men down and diminishing their character.  A lot of these women online talking about how “men are shit” are heartbroken girls with a bruised ego and they just want to vent and have their stories heard.  They have no idea what generations of women have been fighting for and the values that accompany being a feminist.  

Now before you get your knickers in a bunch, I have always tweeted “men are trash” (and I’ll get back to that).  
Being a feminist is not about making the man feel small or taking away from his masculinity or even his social status.  It’s not about decreasing his salary, or bad mouthing him in public.  Being a feminist is not about trying to act like a man by being sexually promiscuous (if you are sexually liberated, good for you! There is no judgement here).  It is not about replacing them in society or diminishing his role as the male.  It is simply about uplifting women, making sure that they are given the opportunity to provide for their families, get an education, and be viable for that job they always wanted.  It’s about making sure women remember that they are beautiful and important and valued.  It’s about making sure women are protected, that we are taking care of ourselves and each other.  

There are so many other reasons why being a feminist is important to me, but instead of going there I would like to tell you about a conversation that I had with a friend.  She told me that she doesn’t agree with “the whole feminist movement”, as she put it, she said that “men and women each have our separate roles to play and that being a feminist takes that away and leaves us with a generation of men and women who don’t know their place”.  Needless to say this infuriated me, because I don’t want to be a man and I don’t want to take a man’s place.  I just want to be valued, as most women do.  
Now, for the “men are trash” topic.  I have ranted and raved many times about how men have broken my heart and made me feel worthless and, and, and… but the idea behind “men are trash” is not a broken hearted little girl sulking in a corner about a boy who kissed her and stole her candy shortly after.  It’s about the high numbers of rape and domestic violence we face every day in this country.  Every day we see headlines like “husband shoots wife and two kids and kills himself after” or “man stabs woman for refusing to give him her number”, we are faced with stories such as “older cousin rapes three year old baby girl” and horrific stories of drugged girls at parties being raped and left for dead.  Incidents like these are the reason behind the “men are trash” movement.  

So back to a man telling me how I’m not a feminist, he told me that I’m a misandrist, because I hate men.  I do not hate men! Never have, never will.  I am however angry at the way they treat us women and the cruelty they show us every day.  Now as a multifaceted woman, who might I say, is well read and has been alive for a quarter of a century, I would hate to think that I only have one mindset regarding “men”.  I’m curious why people think that I can’t be a feminist and be absolutely furious at men at the same time?  Like I have to pick one, “you can either view us as equal or be mad at us”.  But I want to be mad as hell, cause I’ve been hurt by men who I have loved, I have seen my friends and family get hurt by men they love.  I have seen men leave and damage and destroy.  I have also seen men build, and love, and protect.  I have seen men encourage women, when even our own have torn us down, and for these reasons I cannot possibly only love or hate men.  I can be a feminist and believe in what it stands for and take on the tasks that come with carrying that title, but I can also sympathise with the pain my “sisters” have endured.  
So in conclusion: stop trying to label me a “man bashing feminist” because you see women on the internet using “feminism” as an excuse or a screen to hide behind while venting about broken hearts and empty promises.  Not all of them are feminist and some of us are, but we are still angry and sad and disappointed in the men around us.  


Surely when you looked into my eyes you could see that I had lost myself in this life long before you came along.  Surely you should have known that the spark you felt between us would be the spark I used to light the fire that would inevitably burn you.  See I warned you about my life, this life that is only made for one, you disregarded my warnings and decided to explore it in anyway, and now that you see it, this life that is only made for one, you’re ready to turn and run.  

This is a warning to those who want to save a broken soul: don’t come near me with your fragile masculinity and your childlike state of mind that is unable to fathom that we don’t all live in a constant state of bliss.  There is no sunshine and roses here.  Don’t come near me with your fickle heart that changes because you are unable to change mine.  

I told you from the start not to come near me because I don’t want to let you in.  I was never ready to have your rainbows infiltrate my darkest spaces.  You ignored my warning and decided to “enter at own risk” and when my armoured guards came ready to kick your ass out of my castle, you stood there with your chest out, ready to face them.  Head on, strong and brave.  I saw you standing there; ready to risk it all and I decided to let you in.  I mean what’s the worst thing that this knight in shining armour could do right?  People like you don’t leave, right?  Now you’re in my castle, experiencing this life that I love so much.  Filled with fake shinny things and people that rotate in and out of the picture; like they are doing a dance I know all too well.  
I was never ready to tell you all my secrets.  I never wanted to share my stories with you.  I knew you could never handle the truth. There was always too much innocence in your eyes.  You would never be able to deal with the demons that have found a home in my castle.  I know that it’s beautiful to look at, and I’m sure you were curious and wanted to touch.  These demons make the most beautiful colours when the sunlight hits their skin.  From the outside, I’m sure it looks like what your mind imagines utopia looks like.  

I’m sorry that you had to find out this way, but there is nothing here for “your kind”.  Knights in shining armour don’t know how to dance alone in the dark, while they wait for me to make my way to them.  Don’t come near me, these walls are here for a reason.  These walls have been put up, not to protect me from you, but to protect you from me.  Don’t come near me, I take pride in eating hearts and leaving with blood stains on my hands.  Don’t come near me, you are not the one that I need to make these demons leave.  Your heart is new and my lungs are struggling to keep up with the pace yours is beating at.  Don’t come near me, your mind is pure and mine is minefield, every step could be my last.  Don’t come near me, my idea of fun is standing on ledges with my eyes closes waiting to see how long it will take for wind to blow me down.  
I told you to stop looking into my eyes; they can only keep you entertained for so long.  Leave my castle.  The utopia I have inside is not for knights in shining armour.  For I have spent too many nights dancing with tears in my eyes, playing the song my favourite demon likes the most.  This demon is loneliness. 

But I am not alone.