is ..

My tears are thick
My body, irritated.
Muscles, they ache.
My chest is heaviness.
Down to under my ribs, it heaves.
But silently.
My stomach knots.
Tight, like my fists.
My thighs.
My calves.
All recoiled.

And that is it’s existence.

Trying to be gentle with myself, is like ..

A bad fucken joke.


here’s a dream for yah .. yup I still have em

fuck face was dead. id halved him to put in a box to put outside.
noone cared.
Then he woke up.
But different.
Cut to my Nan and grandad’s old place.
Aunty N .. came gave me a letter and a hug. @ Front porch of Nan’s old place.
A Big hug.
Another person, unnamed, came to some where .. where I was at,  motel or place we were all watching kapa haka. Moko was little. But acting grown.
Person came in and said ok I’m here to discuss .. something .. sounded like it was going to be friendly .. and then they said ..
Something like, youre mental health or you’re mental state is shit because you won’t agree with me.
As they started in though, fuck face came in, there were others, my daughter’s and grand kids ..
I got angry.
I let this person talk for ages. Rave on.
Everyone was looking at me walking around, pacing and this person was getting high off their own speech.
But they sounded absurd.
Then I let rip. Finally.
Said ‘tell me why’, in a big big voice, ‘why I went off the rails as u say .. got rebellious .. naughty’ ..
I was yelling ..
‘What age did that happen, do you remember.
Do you fucken remember when that fuck first hurt me.
Have a guess. Nice and loud. Was it,
7, no, mokos age, no, lower .. lower .. 3 – 4 ..
And what did you do
What did you do.’
Noone moved.
They just watched.
They weren’t uncomfortable.
I was getting louder though. Not crying. Bit visbly angry.
‘What did you do when I came and told you.
What did you say
Did you stop going there.
Did you tell him off.
Did they fuck face?
On and on.
And you have the the fucken cheek to be here telling me I’m mentally incompetent.

Fuck you.”
& That was the end of my dream.
When I woke up my throat felt different.



I’ve spent a lifetime
Mapping what to do next.
Also known as,
Evasive manouvres.

And now you telling me to stop it.

How about, how to make peace with it.

Or to utilize it for something else.

Cos it is literally part of me.

The angst comes from trying Not to be that & remove it.


said it before , say it again, just cos

Simple clear functional spaces are my safe places / spaces.

So fucking minimal.

It’s a Calm space.


eyeball rolling

so busy,

apparently necessarily ..

managing symptoms .. patching up holes ..

we can’t dismantle or eradicate the ’cause’.


Or even hold it accountable.

now that’s some bullshit.


telling & retelling my story.

Healing my body.
Healing my story.
Narrating my own healing.
Whatever comes & whoever it comes for, after all that talking, & all the work ; is gravy.
First contact & awareness with my uterus, was forceful invasion.

She has carried that ever since.

She won’t ever not.

Even as she prepares to close her biological functions
She can prepare to let go of the maemae she has held until she could enact her memories.

All hail.


& &

You sick filthy fucks.



.. just is ..

Guts tightening .. feeling like vomiting but not exactly …
More like invaded , consumed  ..
I can breathe ..
My insides are screaming.

Let me go
Let me out

My other insides are trying to soothe me.

It’s ok.
Just breathe gf.
Just breathe.

But I don’t want to breathe I want to cry.
Curl up into a ball and die.
All at once.

And my guts tightens.

We coming to a close.

Or more like a resolution. Partnership maybe.

And my guts tightens.

And I can feel my wairua fighting.
Fighting to breathe.

Fighting to calm.

Fighting to balance.
Fighting for perspective.

Me & her.
We tight.

Just tryna get the rest of the fucken team on board .. (the body .. groan)

I got use.

Somewhere. I got use.




long term child sexual assault often gets referred to as an abusive ‘realtionship’.
it’s not.
i repeat.



Child .. invasion.
But not being able to describe the sensation.
Of being or having no control over what is happening to your body.

It’s not shame.
Even though those honkies say that’s what it is.
It ain’t.

It’s not breathing.
Not being able to take a breathe.
That’s fear.
Fear of dying.
For real.

I feel no shame for something someone else chose to enact on my body.
My body.

I feel fear.
Hot burning fear.

Translating into hot burning rage.


. . . tell yah what’s hideous

the feeling.

or concept.

of being out of control. of your body.

Just breathe.


the smear shit

Someone says to me the other day .. ‘have yah smeared yah mear’ .. & while I get the sentiment .. I also wondered where on earth they dug too to come back with the audacity to ask me about my minge & what I do with it.

Cos apparently us natives don’t know any better.

Smears are free for us marrriiis. And all hail you and your teke if you want the plastic crowbar up there .. but honestly, I ain’t gonna post on IG whether my minge got hoisted open and scrapped.

My minge my business.
And I’m not even going near the trauma allllll that shit entails.
My minge, my trauma, my business.




i can chose the ancestors i speak of & the stories i want to re tell.
it’s my choice.
i narrate that shit.


guess what i reckon ..


is a trauma response.

designed to make u respond impulsively.

when i think about our tipuna and the old school Hui on the marae .. not the new wananga ones .. the ones that have u yawning but sleeping with one eye open .. those ones.

those bastards went for days lol.


cos everything got looked at, turned over, relooked at, re turned and relooked @.

no motherfucking stone was left unturned and it was done on our terms at our pace.

im gonna let that simmer.


did yah know ..

it’s near impossible to read anything when u feel unsafe?
that’s what came to me today.
after wondering what it is I love or even like, to do.
i realised I’d been following the sunshine round my house, you know, when it comes through the windows and is warm but not too hot .  . & I sit or lie in it’s warmth, & read …
i’m reading three books now. mainly just one though.
it’s from a series of kids horror books .. the other 2 books are way more grown up, but I like the kid ones.
anyways, I realised, I never read for the fuck of it, because I was always alert.
whilst alert nothing can be a major distraction because your senses are spread out.
& there’s no room for engrossing make believe when real life is exhausting as fuck.
today I’ll continue with my little horror books. lying on the floor in the sun.
in safeish safety.
practicing .. rest. without all my senses freaking themselves the fuck out.
fyi :just random thoughts.


imagine ..

being in a place where nothing is traumatic.


. .

new phase ..

reckons ..
tryna be gentle with myself.

& it’s hard to breathe.

breathe baby.



it mental health awareness month .  .  & i wonder ..
does that shit apply to injury.
see ..
the sexual assault of a child & the ongoing torture and torment of that child, right up into adulthood, is a crime .. right? like an actual legit crime.
covered by acc & all, the effects of that crime are considered injuries.
however those injuries have to be diagnosed as mental illness / injury to be legitly covered.
so i wanna know how telling the victim of multiple crimes, that they are infact the one with the mental illness. how the fuck that help ..  any body. Any time. At all.

make that make some motherfucking sense please.



don’t let it seep into



my life.
being alive.
starting to feel. uncomfortably comfortable. my body.
a start.