The intended message

Each of us has a story we wish to share. This is a platform I’ve decided on for the untold stories that are hidden and held as omens of our society. 

The blood raw, messy roots are not meant to be buried they are meant to screamed out to the world, put up as vandalism up the perpetrators so that all may know and no victim may be held captive by the rug that it’s all thrown under.  

The cry of each of us needs to GET OUT. 


Pieces of wisdom 


Enough money within her control to move out…

And rent a place of her own 

even if she never wants to

or needs to… 

Something perfect to wear if the employer 

or date of her dreams wants to See Her in an hour… 

A youth she’s content to leave behind…. 

A past juicy enough that she’s looking forward to

retelling it in her Old Age…. 

A set of screwdrivers, 

a cordless drill, and a black lace bra… 

One friend who always makes her laugh…

And one Who lets her cry… 

A good piece of furniture not previously owned 

by anyone else in her Family… 

Eight matching plates, 

wine glasses with stems, 

And a recipe for a meal that will make

her guests feel Honored… 

A feeling of control over her destiny… 

How to fall in love without losing herself.. 

How to quit a job

Break up with a lover, 

And confront a friend without ruining the friendship… 

When to try harder…

And when to walk away… 

That she can’t change the length of her calves,

The width of her hips, 

or the nature of her parents.. 

That her childhood may not have been perfect…

But it’s over… 

What she would and wouldn’t do for love or more… 

How to live alone…

Even if she doesn’t like it… 

Whom she can trust, 

Whom she can’t, 

And why she shouldn’t take it personally… 

Where to go…

Be it to her best friend’s kitchen table…

Or a charming inn in the woods…

When her soul needs soothing… 

What she can and can’t accomplish in a day…

A month…

And a year… 
Written by Pamela Redmond Satran

Simply hurt

 I have come to realize just how lonely I’ve become. There is no one aside from you which ultimately is stupidity in a bottle. 
If it is that I’m so worried about losing you I should’ve come up with a contingency plan but somehow I haven’t. I’ll just fall and be. That’s all.

I’m back in a really bad space that I feel I just don’t want to come out of anymore. It truly is pointless to have a good moment and then just get trashed down to utter shite. (Yep the “e” was intentional”)

I am really alone. There is no one out there for me who is willing to fight for me when they hear that there is crap talk coming at me, they instead go quiet. No one stops the punches coming at me when my back is turned and they see what’s about to come. There is no one.

I’ve got you but that has become pointless. I have you but I have two you’s and two me’s.

One which is us and one that is work and nothing else. 

I am really alone. My dad keeps saying shit. He keeps bringing up this authority which pisses the living crapiola out of me. But I can’t do jack. The more I say something the more he says I mustn’t be like Islam who doesn’t want to be challenged.

I don’t want to be at home. I hate being at home. Its the worst place on earth. I’m not in a good space when I come from here, when I leave from here the mere thought of it pisses me off completely and then I need to calm down, I need to breathe, not the one jumping at me, not the one talking utter palaver, not the one punching the wind out of my lungs, no. 

It’s just me.

It never stops in my life. Somehow I feel that today was a substitute for tomorrow. 

I want to leave. I never want to come back to this ever. But it keeps happening. I’m sick of it but I can do nothing. Because I am me. And I am nice. And I’m a psycho female, and I’m a walk over, and I’m just that chic that people can just like their shit on because I’m that chair or object in everyone’s room with laundry on it. 

So yes. I’m just that chic

His eyes are like those of his mother’s


I became a mother to a child born in bondage. One whom I knew was meant to have a better life with someone else but I could not.

I was selfish

I died the day I gave birth. After seeing him in a box surrounded by upfront knives pointing right at him. He laughs with light in his eyes, making the world look more appealing in comparison to the pig sitting before with bulging fat look like tsunamis ready to be created, with a snoring snarl at the child that us meant to be like his.

No. His servant. Now.

Caught up in drugs, needles piercing, vein breaking, purple prints, it is all burning.

It caught up to me. What now?


He takes his son, “boy if I tell you to jump you’ll ask how high.” But… Punch one. “Why are you doing this?” “What have I done to you?” Punch two.

Skin torn. Mother still laying on the ground. Not moving but he won’t do anything.

You came from her. Disdain. fury. Utter dishonour.

She stayed there for three days. I had to stay within his sight ALL THE TIME. That is… that was my mom.

He’s found someone new but she doesn’t like me either. I miss her- my mom. I do.

I’ll turn, get her out. These scars are the overpowering evidence to her life. I know she wanted more for me- why else would she have kept the shoe box. Drugs still around it. Gun still on the table. Money still stained with her blood.

I’m too small to carry her. Shot one- He’s dead. Shot two- She screams. She dies. Mommy wake up we’re free. It’s over. You can wake up now.

Labelled or titled or believed


A great divide: this is me, that is you

Now imagine that divide in your home, whether it came knocking on the door or it just bashed down the door and inconsiderately barged it’s way in.

He lives here. The divide.

No trust. No communication.

Just assumptions, backstabbing, hindering in the idea of a bond, of love, of life.

All I saw was you staring at her like a beautiful piece of lingerie, a glorious steak, the perfect pen.

Not in adoration, but instead in lust, desire, in complete and utter… you know what plain and simple: you’re disgusting!

I can’t even be labelled/ titled/ believed to be a child of God because you have created this void in my chest filled with hatred and rage.


Tear stained bed

I shit ice cream and rainbows. A zombie  is roaming in my hallway. Survival is key.

Everyone loves me where I am. Each and every day I have to put up this face yet there are cracks within. People believe my faeces consists of ice cream and rainbows, and that I have a fantastic home with fun loving family members. 

They don’t see the cracks. The times where I hide in the library all alone or working out beyond what is requested by our gym teacher. I need to vent. 

But I’m surrounded by quintessential souls, feeding from my so called positive life and outstanding reputation. Yes I am the “it” girl. I’m part of the “it” crowd. I’m that popular girl you know you want to be and the typical prom queen everyone knows will win.

I’m that chic they just don’t know each and every day I have to shed my oh so perfect skin, I to remove my makeup and realise I am not that chic for I live within a home that has become a suicide spree. 

I want to leave but I can’t. How will I answer the questions people will have. I don’t need their sympathy. 

My blood sister slit her jugular vein a month ago in the room next to mine. My niece took a shot of rat poison and OD’d on her sleeping meds they couldn’t pump her in time. My mom has turned into a zombie because every female coming into this home leaves a couple of hours later or if they stay they commit suicide. 

I’m almost there but I have to stay strong for my mom. My body, his canvas to do as he pleases. His undesirable hands touching and tracing every curve of my body. While tears stains the sheets. If I do not submit he will surely beat me up too. 

My sister got beaten so bad that she couldn’t move. Broken bones, and crutches was awarded to her for standing up and speaking out against him. 

No it’s not fair but this is the life. 

I have to fight somehow but for now I’ll drown with my tear streaked face, rainbows and all. Hope and joy and all. Suicidal tendencies and murderous thoughts. 

We’ll see which inclination will dominate.

A stray bullet

​I’m so sorry that I was in your way

I’m sorry that you couldn’t get the guy you wanted because of me, the obstacle that was in your way. The one who caused you to miss your target. 

  You hit the bullet in my spine though. Great idea. Stray bullets flying back and forth between yourself and your that guy. Why? 

  I don’t understand why you had to make use of me when you ran from the one post to the next. Did you think I was that big of a threat to you? Me and my small fragile body… I’m only 5 years old. I wanted to be a police officer like my mom. She protects others but she couldn’t protect me. 

  She ran into the hospital trying to find me and once she did she heard that I was being operated on due to you and your missed target. She was crying alot when she heard this. The doctor told her the I am in danger as the bullet is embedded in the groove of the discs in my spinal cord. 

  She says she heard over her radio that there was a shoot out near where we lived but she couldn’t leave where she was stationed to be at the time. My mom was really worried as she knew I was probably playing outside with Jesse and Caitlyn. 

  You Mr “I can’t shoot straight” you caused the tears in my mother’s beautiful eyes, you caused the hurt in my father’s heart when I told him that my back was sore and when he said everything will be alright. I didn’t know that I got shot. My dad saw the blood and he knew. 

Are you a parent? Do you want this for your child? I hope you feel good knowing that I may be paralysed for the rest of my life if the bullet severed any nerves. 

I respect myself

I respect myself enough to breathe. To relax. To know that from now till forevermore arrives it just myself and my shadow.

I respect myself enough to let the people go who have hurt me e.g. the one who so beautifully said he’d have thrown me out on the street if it wasn’t for studies I might even have taken you up on your offer but I can’t. I have a beautiful sister whom your perverse ass will probably rape because of the type of arse you are. 

I hate you. Because I can’t live

I’m now stuck. But I still respect myself enough to realise I’m not the butt in the equation. YOU ARE!