Emma’s poems


What does it mean?
It means to get up in the morning and not to be afraid, like I was as a child,
like I am in my confinement, what will hit me today?
I hope to wake up without anxiety, wake up slowly or fast whatever the day feels like.

If the weather is fine I shall sit outside and have a cup of coffee and a cigarette,
I’ll brush my teeth first but I will take it all slowly.

Won’t be sat like our life depends on the shout of the medication, eight tablets for my breakfast.

I’ll enjoy my coffee, may even be eating a small amount in the mornings, but I doubt it old habits are hard to break.

If its not fine outside I’ll sit somewhere fresh or even jump into bed
I’ll be fresh because I’ll of been bathing and washing with toiletries I choose and when I want to.

I don’t think buying a paper every morning is for me but I would love fresh flowers everyday, pick them myself or go and buy some.



Not the ones that plague your mind in the night,
I wanna tell you about the ones that keep me alive.
Lived and living a nightmare, but not in the still of the night.
I was conscious, I am conscious, it’s all real, but I dream.

I dream of laughter from within and around me.
Running naked in the rain, taking a shower form the heavens.
No one knows what it is about me, that wakes me from the nightmares, to carry on some more, it’s my dreams.

Flat out on a hot search, free of my clothes, free of my past.
A safe place I can call home, my space, my loves.
It would make you stop and stare as you passed it.
As you would see the full beauty I need inside and around me.
I will always dream.


The Map of my life

I’m Angry, yes I’m very fucking angry, but it’s not close up. Close up is sadness and tears welling up but I have cried so much today that my head hurts.

You who drugged me up and did god only knows what to me. A stray fourteen year old. Did you think it was fun feeding me pills? Let me collapse in the shower, next thing I know you’re trying to hold me up and dress me on the bed. What did you tell me? Through the haze of drugs. Kool ade, that was it we needed to go to the shop for kool ade. How kind of you to dress me and help me stagger out of your apartment me, fourteen, drugged wasn’t thinking let you prop me up in the freezing snow, must have been about minus fifteen degrees and I fucking stood there for a while, all of about a couple of minutes I couldn’t stand, didn’t have the co-ordination, so I slumped in the snow like a good believing child. As I waited for you to return, from a house you said you were going for money, you bastard. You may have left me for dead, but here I am today.

Had your fun did you? And then did you get scared? Scared that you’d closely killed me with pills? Fucking cowardly bastard. I was bleeding down below, but I don’t want to know what you did, I know enough about you to know I hate you ok, your just one but I remember you clearly. I never thought I could get to help but I did. It’s a wonder I wasn’t killed, wobbling my way across one of the biggest roads in Edmonton, I made it all right and got help to get a taxi. I came back to haunt you, you fucking prick. Outside your apartment door I sliced five inches up my arm, I call my scars the map of my life. Yours is still very much there a bleeding nose from falling blood rushing out of my arm. Blood between my legs dumb struck weren’t you? Prick.

Tried to stop the flow of blood and threw me in another taxi, that was the end of it of it for you, and I hope it was the end of you playing with fourteen year old girls.

It didn’t end there for me and you weren’t even the first mother fucking bastard to mess with me and you certainly weren’t the last.

Trevor was the last and rest his soul that people like you contributed to his death.


The Smell of Blood

At seven years old I picked chunks of skin out of my hands, the smell of the blood must have been there then.

Linda made me lie flat on my back one day the smell of the blood was there then. I’ve been alone in places and smelt blood when it was not around.

I’ve cut my arms since the age of twelve, lots of blood there.

A man with a knife wound would died in my arms at seventeen.

When I went through my break down, the cocoa was blood on the clothes in my sink, the smell was there , I through the clothes away.

I’ve been anorexic, I’ve been bulimic, I’ve been a compulsive eater, Compulsive washer.

I do a lot physically in my sleep, even abuse myself.

I’ve been, abused and travelled on. I don’t remember burning myself the first time, it happened in a blackout, the next time I did remember doing it.

I put four cigarettes out on my arms at the weekend.

I needed to leave myself,First the pain, Then the numbness, Then nothing.

Someone heard me scream, but I think I’d gone by then.


I loved

I loved my cell,

I made it my home.

I washed to bathe,

In a blue plastic bowl.

No potty but a toilet an instant disposal.

Beautiful pictures on the walls, hours of looking and admiring, a comfortable corner, for music, drugs and dreaming.

A bedroom always in use.

To sleep doss or make love in.