Laid up next to him, admiring his lines and thinking to myself that his body is a work of art. He’s my saving grace, what pulled me back from the brink. The brink of what? It doesn’t matter what because those days have long passed. It only matters that he saved me when I needed saving. Twice as a matter of fact. He stood by me even though I was most unpleasant and difficult. He loved me whenever I couldn’t love myself, when I couldn’t love him. He was the light in my neverending darkness, my nightlight, my security blanket, he was my Savior. These days my mind is much calmer and the darkness stays away. I can always feel it pulsating somewhere near the edges but it doesn’t frighten me nearly as much as it used to because I know he’s near. Those lines of his though, they sing me a lullaby, a tune that lures me closer, my fingertips caressing and exploring, his body is a wonderland and I can never get enough. He tries to pretend he doesn’t notice while he’s working on his university work or while he’s playing a game but I see him observing me out of the corner of his eyes, his lips slightly parting as I slide over a sensitive spot. His pulse skips a beat and this gets mine racing and no matter the world is going to shit, this moment is all we need to set it right, all we have to do is let ourselves go.




Here I am telling myself that I won’t do this again, I won’t sit here and write these words again. I won’t find myself speechless. But there’s something about the way you turn my words around and around in your head, the way you try to imagine the things I talk about, the way you try to breathe life into it all that makes me want to tell you more.

Months will go by before I feel like this, before the words stop coming, before I stop losing my sense of wonderment and my imagination. I become so easily jaded though and once it’s gone, it’s gone. But then I think of you, I catch a glimpse of you in a work of art in a corner store, in the title of a classic on a shelf of my favorite bookstore, sometime your image just materializes into my mind and this is when I feel the need to write. It’s when I decide I want you to see more.

Of all the eyes I could have on my words, in my mind, in my heart, I want yours to see those places of me that I cannot freely share with most others. I want you to see the darkness and understand it, embrace it, adore it, because it is so like yours. Did you know it’s like your own darkness?

In a world where it’s hard to meet kindred spirits, somehow we have stumbled upon each other and when you’re pondering and contemplating and reveling in the part of my soul I pour out to you we are one, just for a moment, our lives overlap and I know you understand the things I say because you know of these things too. We are kindred spirits who travel at our own pace in our dimensions and sometimes our worlds collide and it feels like home.



I told myself I wouldn’t write because I didn’t have anything worth saying. I told myself that writing to release the frustration and anger I’m feeling wouldn’t help a damn bit. Instead, I filled my time scrolling through social media and fuming, yet, here I am.

I told myself writing doesn’t help anything. All afternoon I’ve been dealing with teachers who have forgotten what it’s like to be six, teachers who don’t understand that it’s not always the child with the issue, sometimes it’s the teacher’s teaching style, teachers who say they don’t expect a solution from you, but that they “just wanted to let you know,” teachers who call you at the most inopportune times and have your anxiety at a high for the rest of the afternoon.

I told myself I wouldn’t write about the exhaustion, lord the exhaustion never leaves me. I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how after I came home from work I lay in bed for two hours doing nothing more than staring at the wall because I didn’t have the energy to do anything else. About how I have a sink full of dishes, a cluttered dining room table, a living room that is in shambles despite the fact that I’m never in it. I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how much I detest cleaning because it’s a never ending job, one that is thankless and, well, exhausting. These are my duties and most of the time I am thankful to have the opportunity to fulfill them. Most of the time. But not today.

I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how the ocean has been in the back of my mind all day, the whisper of the waves, the cries of the seagulls, the smooth and silky sand between my toes. It’s been more than eleven years since I’ve last set foot on the beach, who knows, maybe I’ve got it all wrong. Maybe I’ve forgotten what it feels like, what it sounds like, what it smells like. It doesn’t much matter because I had already told myself I wouldn’t ramble on to you about it.

I told myself I wouldn’t write about kindred spirits, about finding people who understand and accept you because they are just like you. People who laugh at things similar to you, smile at the same things, cry and worry about the same things. People who have the same favorite books as you, people who think of you as they’re cleaning out their old apartments because they’re moving in with a new partner and know that you could use the extra dishes, people who order breakfast for the rest of your group of friends but remember to buy you something as well, even though they know you won’t be around until a little later. I told myself I wouldn’t bore you with these things, these things that warm my insides.

I told myself I wouldn’t tell you yet again about my dream to be published one day, and about how I’m worried about taking that step because I worry that my words don’t matter, that no one reads anymore anyways, that everyone is already doing it and how big of a difference could my words make in a world that is already inundated with them. About how it’s not so much the desire for my words to become a bestseller, only that I don’t want to be forgotten when I finally make it to where I’m going and leaving some words behind seems a good way to ensure I’m not. Forgotten, I mean. I told myself I wouldn’t tell you how much I adore reading the words of my favorite bloggers, sometimes reading and re-reading some of my favorite posts that I have bookmarked because they make my heart smile, they make me cry, they make me feel. I told myself it wouldn’t matter if you knew it.

I told myself I wouldn’t write today, about all of these things and about none of these things. I told myself the words didn’t matter, that they wouldn’t come, that no one would read them, that I wouldn’t feel better even after I had written them. I told myself all of these things and quite a bit more, and still, I wrote. Also I told myself the picture I chose to go along with this writing has absolutely nothing to do with my words but it’s cute.




There’s days when I have the urge to keep the words flowing- posts, letters, journaling- words flowing onto pages and screens with no end in sight. It’s almost in a type of panic, not the fear of running out of words to write or ways to make them fit together, like pieces of a puzzle, but fear of running out of time to show you the words that express and bring to life the things inside me, around me, the things I’m made up of.

My fingers type quickly and furiously and I turn page after page, trying with each one to make the ideas, the words come together  to form something that you can understand, something that you can relate to, something that will make you feel. Some days it works, some days it’s just a bunch of Half-hearted gibberish, things that only make sense to me, things that only bring me pleasure in imagining, pondering, remembering, but still I try to share them with you.

The thing about being a writer is that the words come when they’re ready, no matter how much you want them there now, they don’t work like that. Not all the time anyways. Not for me anyways. I could sit and type out nonsense for minutes, hours, days, waiting for the words to form something  beautiful, but if they’re not ready to be born then they’re just not ready. I’m patient. Days go by when nothing pours from me and once it does, it leaves me exhausted, spent, empty until the next time. I’m okay with this for the most part.

There’s things that bring me more inspiration than others and these are the things I come back to time and time again when I need to feel, well, inspired. Words of truth, truth the way others see it, the owners of these words. Everyone’s truth is different and everyone’s truth is beautiful in their own way. Even when it’s ugly, it’s beautiful.

Reading the truths of others gives me the courage to write of my own. It gives me the strength to begin and continue on until I am finished, until I have purged myself from everything I’ve held in for so long, the things that make it hard for me to concentrate on anything other than how to put my truths into physical words that you can experience, that you can understand. Your words give me courage and inspiration.

There’s days I tell myself my words don’t matter, that they aren’t getting me anywhere, that no one is reading them, that no one understands and on those days, I don’t write. I sulk instead. I sulk and read and drink obscene amounts of coffee. This has been me for several months now. But not today. Today, I am writing. I’m writing my words, I’m writing my truths.

Did you know that I smoke? A nasty habit most would say, most including smokers themselves. I agree but smoking reminds me that I am alive, that I’m making a conscious decision without influence or pressure from anyone else or their views on smoking or the fact that I indulge in it. I get a lot of lectures about how smoking is bad for me and it’s never anything I didn’t already know, I’m gonna smoke regardless. Something that may kill me one day makes me feel so alive today. But I don’t think it will kill me. Not anytime soon anyways.

Today I had an urge to keep the words flowing and to tell you a little bit more about me, things you may not have known before. I think I succeeded, but the urge to create is still there so I’ll continue on. Maybe not right now, maybe not right here, but I’ll be around, thinking of how I’ll put these words down.


Something Real


What could I tell you that’s real? I struggle when it comes to writing it down sometimes, but the urge to do so is too strong so I begin and find myself staring at the words I have written, the blinking cursor, the blank spaces after. I’m sat here in bed, a load of laundry going, my bedroom somewhat cleaner than it was before. It’s hard to keep the house clean with three kids and a puppy, but I do the best I can. I’ve so much to do every single day and not enough hours to do it all in. This reality makes me anxious. I start doing the things I need to do and then I sit in bed and do things I have no time to do, I read, I play scavenger hunt games on my phone, I write. In between this the Girls run in and out of my room, yelling and screaming that the other one looked at them, that they can’t find something they didn’t even know they had lost, that the puppy is chewing on something of theirs. It’s exhausting, my life is exhausting, yet I push on.

I tell myself that one day I will be able to do the things I want to do if I will only keep doing the things I don’t particularly like to do. I tell myself if I keep working hard, the goal will be reached. It’s so exhausting sometimes though. I get so tired. I tell myself where I am and where I am going is so much better than where I was and where I was headed, but even today, I’m not sure where it is that I’m headed, just that unlike in the past, I’m not headed towards an untimely death, although, who knows, it’s not as though I know the exact moment that I will die.

I want to be remembered, it used to be such a fear of mine of being forgotten after I was gone. I don’t want to be forgotten, I don’t want my existence to have been just another one that was purposeless. But what great thing have I done, am I doing, could do? I don’t have the answers to this. I’m merely surviving.

All of this are things that used to weigh heavily on my mind and heart but even more so today as I’m reading article after article and post after post about Hurricane Harvey that has affected so many people in Texas, the state I live in. So many left without homes, possessions, it’s devastating. The question of “But what can I do to help?” is everywhere. I’ve heard that the company I work for is sending teams out to help do what they can, of course there is always the opportunity for monetary donations, prayer, but I can’t just pick up and leave to help, no matter how much I want to. I have a family here that needs me to. And then there’s always the question of, “Besides, who am I? I’m just one person.” I know anything any one person can do makes a difference, but does it really?

Making a difference. That’s what I want to do sometimes, no matter how small that difference is. I want my words to matter. I want to matter on a greater scale than what I already do. Is this wrong?

Most times all I really want is to belong somewhere, it’s what I waited for so long to have. And now I finally have that. I have an awesome family, a man I belong to, my heart, I mean. My heart belongs to him. I belong in my role as a mother, a friend, a partner, a coworker. I have meaning to people in all of these areas, but sometimes I want more. I feel like this is wrong too, is this wrong?

What more can I tell you that is real? That is raw? Sometimes, only sometimes, I have the desire for more. I watch the seconds turn into minutes, into hours, into days,  weeks, months, years, and sometimes I’m left still wanting more. But only sometimes.