Little Miss Wounded

here comes little miss wounded
with stories to tell
of her many misfortunes
and how her life
is so much different
than she thought it would be

little miss wounded –
scarred and bruised –
sings of her past
and how infused
it was
with pain and doubt
and sitting out
on the edge of the world
with everyone else
safe inside

and how she only realised
these things
in retrospect
on her quest
to find the cause
of her ever failing
self esteem
body image

little miss wounded
doesn’t care
for your problems
your fears
or any tales
you share,
for only hers
are sad
are lonely
are filled with grief
only hers
to be

Almost everyday I ask myself if I can write.

Can you write today?

Can you write today?

Today can you write?

Will you write today?

I think about something. I think about writing about it. Then I think that it’s not strong enough and is going to end up in my drafts folder. I don’t want that. Sometimes things happen that anger or frustrate me. I want to write about them. I don’t. My blog was never meant for endless rants and ramblings. They won’t be polished enough to publish and I’m too tired to write them well. It would be better to just put them in my journal. That doesn’t really work either because of how tired I am.

This morning I woke up slowly. It was not the usual trip where I resist getting up and then reprove myself. I got up without any kind of talk going on in my head. I thought about what I would wear, went to take a shower and got dressed. I didn’t even get upset when the hot water ran out in two minutes. I let it pass and continued my shower. I thought about putting on some make-up, but ended up leaving it alone. I knew it wouldn’t make me feel better like it did yesterday. Today was different.

I suppose that’s why I am writing. Today is different.

What I am feeling now is the aftermath of an exchange that occurred before I went to sleep last night. I was perplexed over the effect it had on me – how it had suddenly brought my spirits down when they had been elevated the entire day. This morning that feeling remains. I am once again perplexed that the effect lasted through seven and a half hours of sleep and the two hours it took me to get ready for and travel to work.

I never understand these things. I never understand how small exchanges can make such a strong impact on me.


It’s dry – the fish and rice I’m having for lunch. The same way my eyes were last night, even though I begged and begged and summoned and summoned. My tears never made their way out. I was left to face my demons myself, without the aid of my tears to drown them out, or help me float away.

It’s dry – going down my throat. The same way the message of my mother’s death was. I had already known it was coming. There was nothing to be done.

It’s dry – like the air in Jamaica. I wish I could go back there. I wish I was there now.


A short poem I wrote yesterday.