There were more consultations, more hushed whispers, more pain and less comfort; nowadays Mum’s eyes were even more raw.

You had been prodded with needles, bone marrow biopsies and transplant, chemotherapy and tests, tests, tests. There wasn’t an inch of your skin that hadn’t been pierced, bruised or scratched since you entered St. Mary’s. Even the smallest of falls would cause deep painful bruising so you weren’t even allowed to walk. You used a wheelchair and that made you angry.

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Awaiting death

She sat aimlessly waiting for the courage to ascent the upper staircase leading to the garret story of the house. Every night her mind sub consciously dwelled on this vision repeatedly. She sat overlooking the silent lane and the beautiful grounds in front of her. Mesmerised as the warm summer breeze tenderly caressed her pale skin, like a mother kissing her child.

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Wounded Stereotypes

Working hard to be best,

Donkey, overworked, no rest,

No bruises, blood or lies

No screaming, hurting cries.

How did you manage?

Weight of the world, carried it yourself,

You still do, nobody believes us,

But it’s true.

Homeless, no food, abandoned,

Fuck society, why should we care?

Too young when it happened,

It wasn’t even fair.

Still branded, insecure,

No man, you survived,

You wounded stereotypes

We’ve only just arrived.

*My poem got published on the Coventry Words Online!