• B:Do you think it would help if you talked to him again?
  • Me:(sips coffee) . . . I don't know, really. I mean, if I talked to him and he said what I wanted him to, then it would help.
  • B:What do you want him to say?
  • Me:That he knows I did everything, tried everything to make it work. That he knows I was wonderful. I was great. I was the best thing that ever happened him and he screwed it up. That he destroyed it. Pulled it out of the ground with its roots still intact. . . . That I gave everything. And he gave up.
  • B:But don't you know that already?
  • Me:(shrugs) I want to know that he knows.

writeamuck asked:

6, 30 and 31. :)

6: Any tattoos do you want?

um i love you on my collar bone, infinity sign on my wrist, and a musci note behind my ear :)

 30: Meaning behind your url

When i made my blog i was kinda sad so this was my place to just put anything

 31: Last book you read?

50 shades of gray, cause im a badass :L


ask me these for a rate, and possible follow!

Love. It takes all kinds.

There are people who marry for money. And I think they’re in love. They love security. They love a lifestyle. They love comfort.

And there are people who marry for looks. They’re in love too. They love beauty. They love watching others stare. They love showing off.

There are people who love for stability. Because it’s easy. Some for simplicity. Others for complication.

Love is not right or wrong. Not weak or strong. Love is precious. No matter why we fall, our love is perfect. Love is always perfect.

My Roots Are Just Anchors; I Am Tethered to the South

I am of the South. I sprouted up, all pink and squirmy, out of red Georgia clay. Ate apple pie and drank Coca-Cola and sang Amazing Grace.

As a little pudgy girl with rosy cheeks and big, curious brown eyes, you could find me catching fireflies at dusk. Poking holes in mason jars. Falling asleep next to nature’s nightlight.

After supper, I’d lay on my back in our grassy front yard. Counting the stars. Hoping to catch one flying by. Flying on to oblivion.

Even if you tried, you couldn’t count the hours I wasted jumping on trampolines. Or swimming in the neighborhood pool. Or trying to dig to China. 

I road my lavender bike on make-believe trails through the backyard. I hunted four-leaf clovers. And made club houses out of empty refrigerator boxes.

I trampled through the creek in our backyard, looking for arrowheads, scared half to death of garden snakes and water spiders and southern boys.

Oh yes, the South runs through my veins.

I went to Sunday school. And learned to recite the books of the Bible. Genesis. Exodus. Leviticus. Numbers.

I wore curlers in my hair. Sponge rollers. Hot rollers. Curling irons. And everything in between. My cousins were in beauty pageants. True southern belles with mascara on their lashes and Vaseline on their teeth before they ever had breasts or hips or a choice.

And that’s part of the South too.

The other part. The lonesome part. The part that won’t budge as the rest of the world spins on. Firmly rooted in pride and tradition. Arms folded crossly on her chest. Stubborn as an old mule.

The South isn’t all sunshine and swimming holes. 

I have seen her darker side. Her demons. Her ghosts.

I have seen hatred and ignorance and long lost souls. Anger and malice from hatchets not buried deep enough. Feuds not quite left behind.

I have met plenty of folks that never learned how to think for themselves. Never cared much about it either.

I have seen poverty. Trailer parks brimming with lawn chairs and empty beer bottles and McDonald’s wrappers and babies on the hip.

I have seen good men waste their lives to coal mines and poker tables and all-you-can-eat ribs and local bars.

Oh yes, the South has her own bleak, battered kind of underbelly. Sometimes that darkness is all I can see.

Until I remember the joy of a Sunday potluck after church. Or listening to my grandpa say grace.

Until I imagine the simple pleasure of picking fresh ripe figs. Pulling watermelons off the vine. A porch swing on a rainy day. A sprinkler party in the front yard.

And don’t forget about the fireflies. You can’t ever forget the fireflies.

I’ve seen big dreams lost to the small city. People, like me, who couldn’t quite escape. Moved away only to find that our roots are just anchors; we are tethered to the South.

But no one complains when they end up here. There’s still shade beneath the Georgia pines. And the waters of the Chattahoochee still flow murky and cold.

No, they don’t complain. They just pour themselves another glass of Country Time lemonade, find themselves a rocking chair.

And wait, and wait for the fireflies. 

How to say goodbye.

Saying goodbye. It may be the hardest thing we ever have to do. Relationships end. Jobs end. Lives end. Love ends. We practice it our whole lives through. Yet it never gets any easier to say goodbye.

In high school we did it right. With yearbooks that gave us the opportunity to say the things we’d been too shy to admit. To confess to crushes we’d held onto secretly for years. To give the highest compliments and make promises to stay friends forever and keep in touch and never forget. Then we put on matching caps and gowns and go out ceremoniously, with nothing but exuberance and high expectation.

Why can’t all goodbyes be so uplifting? On the verge of the end, why can’t we just exchange notebooks, and write down how we feel. Give the notebooks back and walk away.

You were great and I was great and we were great together. But you changed and I changed and we changed. Now we’re not so great anymore. We’re holding each other back from being great. I think it’s time we both find greatness again. KIT.

Seems like a nice way to go if you ask me.

Instead we draw out the goodbyes. Ripping off the bandage over hours and days and weeks and years. We don’t know how to let go. So we hold on like an anchor that doesn’t quite understand its purpose.

Saying goodbye requires a few things. It requires forgiveness. Of all wrongdoings. All past transgressions. It cannot start with here are all the reasons I’m saying goodbye. It has to start with here are all the reasons I’ve stayed for so long, but now it’s time for me to go.

It requires honesty. With yourself and with your words. No sugar coating, but no brutality either.

We’ve grown apart. Drifted far away. I think I’m not as happy as I could be. And I think, if you’re honest with yourself, you’ll realize you’re not as happy either. You’ll probably agree our best days are behind us; it’s time to move on.

And lastly, goodbyes require forward perspective. It’s not about the past. It’s not even about the present. And it’s not about the next few weeks or months which will likely be difficult and scary and sometimes sad. It’s about the future. The distant glow of a life you ought to be living, a life you could be living, a life that begins when another one ends. A life that starts with a goodbye. 

Ode to the Poet

(For SouthernLovinBabe and anyone who takes the time to read my writing.)

I learned haiku and limerick and rhyme.

And I learned of beats and rhythm and time.

I learned how to make a sonnet sing.

And how to give a ballad wings.

I learned the grammar don’ts and do’s.

I dreamt in Blake and Angelou.

Hughes made me shake. Poe made me shriek.

 Shakespeare made my knees feel weak.

Silverstein and Seuss were pure.

Dickinson was so unsure.

Donne was brilliant. Whitman, sharp.

Eliot’s Prufrock broke my heart.

Tennyson called me to seize my fate.

“Come my friends, ‘tis not too late.”

And Frost kept me from counting sheep

With “Miles to go before I sleep.”

But my little voice, she tries to hide.

Hoping to stay trapped inside.

And go unnoticed, silently.

So to not compete with poetry.

‘Till the day I’m taken by a hearse.

I dare not utter a single verse.

And in my epitaph please say,

“This girl took poems to her grave.

So she couldn’t fail, she wouldn’t write

Completely paralyzed by fright.

So now we mourn for we’ll never hear,

The voice that loved poems so dear.

We’ll always wonder. We’ll wish we knew.

Perhaps she was a poet too.”

Yes, perhaps she was a poet too. 

If I were to write a memoir... this is how it would begin.


An interpretation of the way I remember it happening.

If you picked up this book, because you thought it was about drug use or rehabilitation or a disturbed young woman in a mental hospital, you might want to reconsider.

It’s actually about a woman who’s never done drugs, but has done a lot of incredible things - like following her heart and finding herself and then loving, without condition, the self she found.

This story, my story, the one I’m about to tell you, it has no heroes. No one steps in and saves this girl, saves me. So don’t go getting your heart set on that kind of ending. In fact, this girl - me, I end up right where I started. 

But sometimes, it’s the middle of the story, not the ending, that matters most. 

Searching for the Write Words.

The artist sees the world in colors and patterns. In strokes and palettes and angles. The photographer in depth and light and shadows. The musician in strums and beats and rhythms.

And the writer sees the world in hyperboles and parables. In memoirs and fantasies. In fact and fiction and monologue and dialogue.

Every action with an adverb. Every object with an adjective. Every emotion with a metaphor. Every moment dusted with allusions and alliteration. 

And as life speeds by, the writer can barely process any of it, because the brain is trying desperately to find all the write words.