He hid his vulnerability behind a mask of indifference. It was infuriating

and alluring all tied up with a pretty bow.


Wednesday, February 22, 2017//12:21 am

You criticized my art. No,  no. Not critiqued. Criticized. As if my art was unimportant. Insignificant. As if my voice didn’t deserve to be heard.

You expected me to sit by submissively as you told me my dreams were unachievable. You expected me to agree, as I always did. To nod my head and look away quietly. Giving my consent to tear down my hopes. Giving my consent to enforce my anxieties and fears.

No one should be told that what they want is wrong. But, no, that didn’t stop you from pushing me down. From doing so to people like me, who scream through pen on paper, through paint on canvas. Who bleed ink through the wounds you make. Who cry for art.

Art isn’t unimportant. Written words aren’t silent. And, you aren’t forever.

If only I had realized that before you let the doubt in.

sweet words

I’ve yet to grasp the idea that I don’t become beautiful when someone tells me I am. The idea that I am not beautiful because someone tells me so. The idea that I already was and still will be when those words lose their luster.

So, why do I seek them? Why do I yearn for those words, so sugary sweet, to drip from their lips?


I just finished reading Milk and Honey and this was kind of inspired by some of the things she said in there. A fantastic collection of thoughts, in my opinion.

thoughts on linda (again)

I miss my grandma less everyday. But, I feel her loss more, too. Strange.

I do miss spending my days at her house. She’d kick my ass at WAR. I miss walking through the grapevine with her when I was little. Don’t eat the green grapes, she had said, they’re bitter. She’d pull my sticky, sweet, grape juice covered hand and lead me to a bunch of sweet, deep violet grapes.

I hate those grapes. Absolutely detest them. I always have. They had seeds and the skin was thick and bumpy. I ate them anyways because I felt like the coolest shit having picked them myself.

I’m not going to lie and say that she didn’t put the fear of God in me, though. I’ll be damned if she didn’t.  A fly swatter to the ass was always an option if we acted up. My sister likely has acute PTSD from it.

She didn’t smile a lot in the end. I think she was in a lot of pain. It was health issue after health issue those last few years. But when she did smile, she was with us, she was with family. People she loved. And, my God, was her smile beautiful.

I don’t go to grandma’s house anymore; it’s just grandaddy’s house now. I haven’t walked in that grapevine in years. The rose grandaddy gave me in her stead the night she died is still in a vase on my bedside table. It’s brown and wilted. Dead.

Mom sprays an old bottle of her perfume when she’s missing her a bit extra some days.

No, I don’t miss her as much, now. Two years time has helped with that. But hell if I don’t feel the loss of her more, knowing that I’ve started missing her less.

That didn’t make sense did it?

Screw you, this is my journal.