photo by Charles at


Hurt is like being poked in the guts with a long pin.
It’s like a heart being ripped apart
and sachets bulging with tears
puncturing yet staying contained,
confined, unable to drain out.

Exclusion is the grief at what might have been:
of lost potential, strangled growth;
the party invite never written,
the friendship extinguished at birth.
It’s not being chosen for the team;
The “‘I forgot your name,”
or “Which one are you?”
”Sorry, I meant the other one;
Go and wait at the side, dear;
we might be able to fit you in at half-time;
No promises, mind!”

Hope is not the light at the end of the tunnel,
but the thought that sometime, somewhere
there’s a place where square pegs can find a home;
where spindly, crooked flowers 
that don’t fit into the catalogue
can find a place to bloom right now,
not “‘some day,”
and where everyone knows your name.

- 17.11.2020

Leave a comment