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.



? ?

Was tryna think bout what it is that I love ..

besides my kids and mokos I mean..
like what do I love to do ..

& I couldnt think of anything that I absolutely love enough to want to be doing all the time ..

& yah know what ..
That pisses me off.



the art of being a moving target.


did i tell yah ..

i visited the last place & time, i had to see fuck face?

endure its presence?

also the last place & time i had the experience of a man that loved me for my entire life. my grandfather ..
& a woman who gave me more than i ever appreciated or realised until she was gone. my grandmother.
i felt Feel it.
i Remember. Remembered it.
i Appreciate. Appreciated it.
i got to write how I wanted to experience this.



trying to heal things that were never mine or never intended for me to heal.

is some fucked up shit.


did i tell yah ..

i thanked my uterus today

that was long overdue.


hey you

congrats on having survived 30 odd years of shallow breathing.

*insert eye ball roll*


its aight ..

hear me :

by turning or weaponising any attempt at intimacy, as me being some dirty lil whore.

means you aint no different than everyone else. anyones whose attempted that. anyways.

although i feel strangely embarrassed and humiliated. which feels weird.

also unheard & misunderstood, again,  but then kinda meh ..

it aint nothing new.

that there has been so many who have taken the time to try and make me feel diminished, so as to make themselves feel better.

is tiring.

but to laugh, or make light of, my wound … on my trauma.

my gapping but healing wound ..

my, try every day to manage my reality, wound ..

is beyond what I imagined it would feel like.  does &  did , feel like.

youre not the first to dismiss, to try and minimise what you believe to be the issue.

youre not the first to try and validate your disdain and disapproval masked as disappointment. youre not the first with the inability to be truthful, fully.

& youre not the first to stomp your foot at my boundaries.


you are the last though.


& today im gonna rest.


& you can go fuck yo’self.




if i’ve survived 32 years of trauma ..

if i’ve run more times than i’ve rested ..

if i’ve acted in response to threat ..

if i’ve resisted everything, to breathe ..

do yah think i’m entitled to have a decades rest & recuperation ..

i think so.

thankyou very muchly.



criticise all you like ..

i know what my demons look like.

do you?





im not sure when agrophobia started .. when i became terrified of leaving the house and being out in the open like a sitting duck.

i know it was a long time before covid .. along time before i got older .. a long long long ass time.

guess what.

i’m over it.



the past

i met my big girls father when i was about 12. he was 13. he was my first ‘boyfriend’, such as ‘it’ was. the ‘relationship’ involved long silent phone calls, an ‘eye’ acknowledgement occasionally, a possible wave & more than anything, the title of being someones girlfriend & vice versa.

that ‘relationship’ didn’t last long of course. 

we ‘met’ again when i was about 14 or 15. the relationship i entered into with him wasnt with deep reflection or thought on my part, it was a knee jerk reaction to all that i was, all i wanted to get away from, all that i thought would ‘fix’ & remedy what i needed, which was, in a nutshell, protection.

what i actually entered into was a childish relationship, a violent relationship & a series of events that would add to and change the course of who i was, forever.

our time together was violent. drunken. full of angst & unknowns. poverty. disempowerment. dishonouring. anguish.

out of all of that came our beautiful little baby girl.

i had just turned 16 when she was born. still a baby myself, upon reflection.


today her fathers mother, her grandmother, died.


when she rang to let me know, i felt nothing. no sympathy. no angst. no sorrow. no nothing.


as we talked more there was a stirring in my gut that has only just started to dissipate. sort of.


it was a time in my life that i walked away from. i chose to leave the relationship as it became more violent. but leaving, as such, was harder than i had anticipated.


all that memory came galloping to the from of my brain & my feels today. & i wasnt prepared for it.

seems to be the way shits working out with me at the moment.


i’ve spent a few hours wading through things i had purposefully forgotten. partially because at the time, there was no other way to deal with it. my safety, my girls safety, were more paramount than  any other ‘feeling’ i may have had.


remembering that i was 16 at the time.


how does a 16 year old, in all reality, deal with this in a manner that is ‘appropriate’?


well i did.

even with everything else (sexual assault aftermath & continued hostilities) going on, i knew i had to keep my girl safe.


i realised today, that at the time of beatings, bottles flying, walls and windows being broken, car crashes, no food, no means of escape .. i was beyond petrified. 




but being petrified propelled me to change shit. to get away by any means necessary.


and i did.


today i felt all that again. and im still reeling but am finding a different kind of ground or firm footing for myself. 


i’m not that scared child. that scared young mother. that person. that person who experienced all that physical violence. 

i’m grown.

i more than survived it.

i had one beautiful friend who would check on me & i am eternally grateful for him.


i’m all grown up even though i thought i was grown then, that was a forced grown. a child that was sexually assaulted & tortured, who grew up trying to escape. & that continued throughout my life and relationships. whether i chose willingly or unconsciously, ive been trying to escape all my life.


im tired.

& rightly so.

i survived.

& rightly so.

im good like that.


this part of my life needs a proper burial i decided.

i need to face it dead in its eye. deal & let it go.


thing is, this letting go thing, is a new layer. its different. deeper.

i know its good, it just doesnt feel good. 


it hurts i think.


it hurts that my girl has to deal with the new layers what i wanted to protect her from. as an adult she has chosen to relate to this family. and i admire the fuck out of her for it.

it just hurts to watch it all unfold.


sucks ass actually.



(this is from a couple weeks ago .. bit delayed .. & still lots going on with this shizz .. im here .. im doing it ;) )



just some thoughts ..

It’s strange times atm.

What I’m noticing is the reluctance for reality.


Had a convo that led to the topic of sexual assault and I made an offer for this person to peruse the evidence I had given for the ACC review. So that could see for themselves the reality that is, me.

I was accused of trying to traumatise them.


So .. this brings up a tonne of questions for me.

One – why is it so hard to discuss the facts of an ordeal such as sexual assault? What doesn’t the world want to hear? Or an individual? Why are they so hell bent on believing lies rather than seeking truth?

I get it’s strange times, but this depth of denial is not new.

It’s what keeps children being repeatedly offended against.

Also how is speaking truth about someone else’s truth traumatising to another?

I’m beginning to believe the world is full of pussies.




the comfort ..

it is more comfortable to limply acknowledge ‘pts(d)’,  than it is to discuss how pts(d) got there.


kpm ©


body; soul

my body,

has never been a safe place for my soul to be.



anger & justice

I’ve been told, through various mediums – societal, religious, familial – most of my life that, anger…or the out working of it….is not an ‘acceptable’ emotion to have or to relay. That we should rid ourselves of all anger and outbursts and live in a more peaceful type, Zen like state. I’ve accepted this theory way too easily I think…reasoning that it is right, because it sounds right.

However….I’m coming to realise, that anger, or the outworking of it, is more ‘uncomfortable’ instead of unacceptable. By uncomfortable, I mean for those around me. When anger is present or being presented, there are the usual tattles in the background from bystanders…”you need to let it go”, “you need to forgive”, “your being irrational and emotional”, “you sound crazy”, “you need to find your happy place”. To name but a few.

But it is accepted that anger turned ‘inwards’ leads to depression. Anger turned ‘outwards’ leads to violence. Why is there no middle ground? Or haven’t I found it yet.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not an ‘advocate’ for random violence. I’m just wondering if I’ve been directed away from the middle ground or anything that is remotely associated with laying responsibility for an action, squarely on the shoulders of a perpetrator.

Quite bluntly, why is it that all that rage, that makes everyone in my world feel uncomfortable, including me; isn’t directed at the source of its creation? Why is ‘that person’ not held accountable; held violently accountable actually, for their depravity?

I once had a white South African female GP tell me, with regards to violation, that ‘our kind’ were far to complacent. At first I was offended, by the, “your kind” statement, but what she was actually referring to were the current people of our NZ culture – or white NZ. I just didn’t understand her at the time.

She relayed a general story of sexual violation of a child and the consequences of such an act, from her cultural point of view.

“……if I was raped, as a child or adult, one of a few things would have happened….my grandfather would have killed him, my father would have killed him, my uncles would have killed him….if it was a family member that did the raping…the same thing would happen to them ….if that didn’t transpire, and the rapist managed to get away from the family…he would be dealt with by the courts. But not like here. When they are locked up…for any length of time…it would be common place to make sure that they are placed into a cell with a ‘big’ cell mate, who had full blown AIDS….. ‘You people’ are far too accepting of the unacceptable…”

I got what she meant after that.

kpm ©



is it actually broke?

Don’t fix it if it aint broke…think that’s what I remember Nan saying.

And I wonder…

Why do we feel like things need to be fixed?

What is broken, actually? Reality or the perception of?

Am I broken because I have shit ass nightmares and flashbacks? Am I broken because I don’t like public spaces…strangers? Am I broken because I don’t do the unexpected well? Or am I broken because I am not able to hold down a conventional job? Am I broken because I don’t socialise 2-3 times a week? Am I broken because I am not a ‘productive’ member of society? Am I broken because I don’t feed back into our economy?

They say pts(d) is what happens to some peeps after a traumatic event…google the technical terms, I can’t be bothered explaining.

But isn’t a freaked out reaction to a traumatic event(s), normal? Healthy? Isn’t that what we’re – our bodies and minds – supposed to bloody do?

If the traumatic event is the invasion into the still of our lives, or the normality of our lives…shouldn’t there actually be an adverse reaction to it?

And yeah yeah, I get that when it becomes debilitating then its an issue blah blah.

But I’m wondering if the society we live in actually fuels that trauma by wanting it to be fixed yesterday…instead of waiting for that process to happen naturally, in its own time.

I’m wondering if the pressure to be alright is what makes it harder to actually be alright.


kpm © : ig @kpm-artist