Vulnerable writing and design
What does it mean to be vulnerable? I was sexually abused by my grandfather as a child. I was vulnerable because, like all young humans, I depended entirely on others. But we are not all equally vulnerable. Some people more vulnerable than others? Can writing about it really change people’s biases and assumptions?
Content warning
My work includes references to sexual violence, childhood abuse, domestic violence, death, eating disorders, self harm, medical trauma, attempted suicide, suicide, alcoholism and substance abuse issues, pregnancy loss, poverty, housing instability, forced adoption, and bullying. Please read this site with care.
This Fragile Thing
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September 2026
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This Fragile Thing • September 2026 •
This Fragile Thing is a vulnerable poetic memoir about how I have survived childhood trauma and sexual abuse. It exposes the lasting impacts of childhood sexual abuse, the institutions that failed me, and the family who chose him over me.
This book is very critical of the political and social conventions that meant I was blamed for what happened to me, blamed for disclosing. I use my story to challenge the idea that my vulnerability in that moment was a personal failing, a failure on my part to make the right decisions, to keep myself safe. I know this now: I am not responsible for my trauma.
My father and my mother were abused as children. These heirlooms are in excellent condition when they are passed down to me. My neck is stuck inside the handle of a fine China cup.
Growing up dad could sleep through anything,
x a n a x blunts the key
he passes d o w n t o m e . I ’ m 2 3
and he has locked
the gate, how many swear words can he fit
in one suicide note
before Facebook takes it down?
The key under
the mat is missing. I hold my own childhood trauma
and find, the pins do not align.
We climb on top of bins, hang from the balcony
like drooping flags there’s no breeze here
our pollen doesn’t travel far from his [locked door].
The book itself is fragmented, mixing court documents, confessional poetry, and mixed media collage to mirror how disorienting living through trauma actually is. There is no contents page, no page numbers, because trauma cannot be easily navigated or understood.
I hold my father’s keys
with my own.
How fast will the metal e r o d e
in the flood waters of my home? The river between us
rises
debris from his last breakdown
fills the room. A bitchy set of drawers floats past,
a fucking selfish dinner set that’s never used.
Read the poems
‘House Full of Thunderstorms’ in Australian Poetry Journal 14.2 (2025).
'My father died aged 67, 11th May 2021’ in The Streets Are Darker Without You Here by Writers Victoria (2025).
'Our First Christmas Without You' in Grieve 2022.
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