Monthly Archives: December 2013


Before I get into what I wanted to share in this blog, I just wanted to say thanks.  For friends who don’t take me for granted, who lend me an ear, and let me lend one back.  For people who love me when I don’t understand how they can.  For loves that last, before they began and after they ended.  For every single person who’s touched my life, for better or worse.




I’ve given up on myself many times.  But one thing that I’ve given up on that I really regret is writing.  I used to love it, wanted nothing more than to write stories that meant something.  That touched someone, one person.  I gave up on that, years ago.  As with many things in my life, I felt I wasn’t good enough, would never be good enough, so why bother trying.


I’m trying again.  With support from friends, support which I haven’t had in a long time.  I’m probably shite, and I’ll probably fail spectacularly – or worse, quietly.  But maybe it’s worth the risk.


Anyway, these are just two “one-page” shorts I wrote as an exercise.  Just to make myself write something.  And I’m sharing them both as a Thank You to those who’ve been pushing me, and as a way to push myself.  I’ve been in a midnight-blue funk lately, and not inspired at all.  But I’m hoping that making my endeavors public will be the kick in the pants I need.


Constructive criticism welcome.




The Bus


The wind was bitter cold. Her cheeks burned, blazing a painful red. She tucked her chin into the collar of her coat, her breath steaming. She stepped carefully down the un-shoveled sidewalk, her entire body clenching in on itself in a futile effort to stay warm.

A part of her welcomed the cold. There was something sadly ironic about piling on thermals, sweaters, coats hats gloves and scarves – and still feeling the bite of wind down to her bones. No matter how she guarded, shielded herself, there was always cold. Always pain.

Her eyes glued to the beaten path before her. To her feet as they trudged on. She wished she had a good pair of boots; the Airwalks she wore were only a year old, but the thick rubberized fabric was already tearing, pulling away from the sole. He feet would be wet and cold all day. She’d stop in at the thrift store, but boots were hard to find. Everyone needed them – they sold as quickly as they were brought in.

Her eyes filled suddenly, and she gave a strong sniff, shaking her head. The last thing she needed was to be crying as she walked down the street. Not only would it be embarrassing to be seen in that state, but the tears would cloud her eyes, and she could step wrong, not seeing a patch of ice or a huge shard of broken glass (why did people feel the need to throw bottles onto sidewalks?). Then she’d be on her ass, crying and hurt with twisted ankle or deep cut. Why add to her problems?

She reached the bus stop without incident. And with ten minutes still to wait. She’d missed enough buses to know that it would be better to pace the corner for a few minutes than to face the decision to walk back home, knowing she’d have to make the trek again. So she paced, walking circles around a guard railing. She pulled her phone from her pocket to check the time. Eight minutes till the bus. Six minutes. Five.

She tried not to think, of anything. Being idle was cruelly anxious. Waiting was torture. Her mind wanted to wander, to touch on those random ideas that made pain flicker inside her, electric. She looked again at her phone. Three minutes. That was good. Maybe the bus would be early.

Traffic blew by her as she raised her eyes to the corner the bus would turn down. She felt embarrassed and exposed standing on the corner. She pulled her coat tighter around her. Her hands were clenched in her pockets, her toes curled in her shoes. Her hat – an old black knit Adidas cap – was pulled down just below her eyebrows, almost too low for her to see. She bounced on the balls of her feet, willing the bus to appear.

Finally! The white and blue monster grumbled around the corner, trailing a steam of exhaust. She groped in her jeans pocket for her bus money. She should really just buy a pass for convenience sake, but she somehow felt the physical presence of the dollar and quarter reassuring. She kicked the snow for her shoes before stepping up the blue treaded stairs. The bus hissed with heat, making her hands and feet ache with excruciating relief. After slipping her fare in the box, she settled into a middle seat. The bus roared, shook, and trundled down the busy street.

Brown eyes, shimmering slightly, took in the scene as it passed by the window. The dirty looking shops, the shoddy little houses. The gas station she was surprised still remained opened, after having been the site of so much violence over the years. The Walgreens she would walk to on days when she just needed to walk somewhere. Her whole life had been lived in this run-down part of town. She wondered if she’d ever escape it. If she even wanted to.

She closed her mind to the thought. Her eyes glazed over as she shut down. Enjoying the warmth of the bus, the satisfaction of being out in the world. The fear of being out in the world, however briefly. Maybe today, she’d smile at someone, and they’d smile back. They’d talk. They’d laugh.  And that would be good. That would be good enough for today.

She smiled, and it hurt her wind-burnt cheeks.




The Pain


Her heart ached. Literally.

The intensity of the feeling was so powerful, a physical blow that knocked her to her knees. She didn’t understand, couldn’t comprehend the feeling – the gnawing, burning pain in her chest. Her hands went to the spot, eyes wide as she looked down. She half expected to see blood seeping through her shirt, staining her hands.

Her confusion added to the pain, and she doubled over, gasping. A shudder passed through her, chilling her even as her chest caught fire, exploding. Freezing, shivering while she burned with agony.

The fire found her face, her eyes, and they stung bitterly as they filled. At once, a dam burst, and she buried her face in her hands as tears poured from her. Sobs wrenched her body. From head to toe she burned hot and cold. Her muscles clenched uncontrollably, locking her into a tortured caricature of a human being.

She felt she couldn’t breathe, the pain was too great, her cries too overpowering. She gasped, and the feeling of drawing a breath made her throat raw. She coughed, then gagged. It was all too much. The tears pouring from her eyes, the seeping of her nose, the incredible pain in her chest.

What was this? If this was heartache, heartbreak, she hadn’t though it would be anything this physical. Her body convulsed, and fresh sobs poured anew. Uncontrollable. Every nerve in her body sizzled. Her veins throbbed with the maddening, wrenching beat of her heart.

Kneeling on the floor, her stomach clenched then turned. Acid boiled up her throat. She reached around blindly, finding a nearby trash-can and dragging it over just in time to empty her stomach. A blinding pain seared around her midsection as she heaved repeatedly. Dry retches followed, and coughs that tore at her throat. She moaned, her head hanging, the smell of vomit and bile burning her nose.

She collapsed onto her side, drained and exhausted. The tears, never ending, leaked across the bridge of her nose, pooling in the cup of her ear before spilling and soaking into the carpet beneath her. A feeling of heaviness settled over her like a concrete blanket. Like a lead casing. The fire still burned in her chest, but it had reduced from an all-out inferno the the dull steady heat of a blacksmith’s forge. She closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than an end.

She awoke hours later, maybe days. Laying prone on the cold floor, every muscle cramped and sore. Her eyes felt thick and gummy, eyelashes clinging to each other with every blink. The room was dark, night had fallen, and she somehow felt relieved by the company of shadows.

Slowly she sat up, propping herself on one arm. Her hand rubbed roughly at her eyes, grinding the salt crust from them; wiping her hand down her face, grimy from all the tears. Looking around the grey-shaded room, she felt dazed, disconnected. She felt strangely calm, and utterly empty.

Shakily, she got to her feet. She just stood there, unsure of what her next action should be. She felt like a robot whose programming had been wiped. The irony lifted the corner of her mouth – the slightest movement – before disappearing beneath a wave of vacuity.

She was vaguely aware of the sick smell in the room, and mechanically set to emptying the trash, opening a window, and setting her apartment to rights. Collecting the cell phone she’d dropped after receiving the call, setting it into its changer. Sweeping the contents of her purse back into the leather bag: her keys, lipgloss, a hand-full of loose change, a wallet open to a picture of a striking man with auburn hair and laughing hazel eyes.

Alone in the darkness, the quiet, she wondered briefly if a heart could grow back. After being so thoroughly removed. The thought passed.


The Ghost Of Christmas Past

Just, remembering what I used to love about Christmas, and why it now sucks so hardcore…


Yeah, my dad loved Christmas.  He was such a big kid.  I remember specifically, how popular he was with my cousins.  How they would literally pile on him.  And I remember not being jealous, but happy – proud – pleased.  Cuz he was mine, and he loved me best.  And I was happy they loved him too.  My mom’s family all loved him.  I don’t see how anyone who knew him wouldn’t.


We spent Christmas Eve at my grandparents always.  After my dad died, I’d spend time with my cousins some, but I never felt like one of them anymore.  I started to hang out with my Uncle Don more.  He was quiet, and would just find a chair and sit there, bemused by the goings on around him.  I always felt comfortable with him.  He’d make crude jokes, like my dad did, and it was fun to be alone with him, in a safe little bubble.


I had some good times with my aunts when I was older.  Sneaking out for smoke breaks with them, grabbing a beer or drink with them.  Talking about men.  If I’ve ever felt comfortable with women, it was always with women older than me.  And my aunts were fun.  My aunt Cathy especially.  Loud, crude, just a blast.  Even if it was just for a few minutes on Christmas Eve, it was good.


I got none of that now.  Dad, dead.  Grandmother dead and grandfather too ill to entertain.  And after this last year, my extended family – my aunts, uncles and cousins – are just so painfully gone from my life.  Honestly, I haven’t spent a Christmas Eve with them since my grandma died, what, 4 years ago now?  But this year has driven such a deep rift between my little family and everyone else…  I feel like I’ve lost them all.


Yay for Christmas.  I’m so grateful for what I do have.  My mom, my brother, my sister-in-law who gets on my nerves, my nieces and nephew.  The family friends whose generosity is so heartwarming.  But Christmas reminds me of how much I’ve lost.  And it’s overwhelming.

Third Time’s The Charm

Ok, I’ve written and deleted this blog twice now…  But I feel like I’ve got to stop being a chickenshit and start being honest, painfully honest.  With myself, and therefore with you guys.  Cuz I can tell myself all sorts of shit.  But if I say nothing about it to anyone else…  Well, it’s just being chickenshit.  🙂


I think most people who know me see me as a fairly happy person.  Maybe they know there’s something going on under the surface, but I put on a good show, so why bother prying up the floorboards.  I’m Viki, and I’m a good time, hells yeah.


But I’m also totally full of shit.  I’ve been dealing with some serious depression since I was 12, when my dad died.  I’ve talked about him before, ‘member? Yeah, you ‘member.  Tall, lanky guy, blonde and blue eyed with a crazy caterpillar mustache.  Doesn’t look a thing like me, but was so like me.


Yeah, I lost him and my world just, ceased to exist.  My mom pulled the plug, btw.  Did I mention that before?  Did I mention how much I hated her for years after that?  I was fucking twelve.  She turned off the machines that were keeping alive the only real friend I’d ever had.  She had my brother, my dad was mine.  And she let him go.  She stopped fighting for him.


You’ve read the story.  I found drugs, alcohol, sex (surprisingly most of it wasn’t meaningless, just pointless).  But the deeper part of the story is that I wanted to die.  I wanted to kill myself, so fucking badly.  Every day since he died.


No, initially, I’d wished it was my mother, or even my brother who’d died.  But when I came to realize that wishes weren’t going to get me anywhere, I figured the best route was to die myself.  At least then, maybe, I could see my dad again.  And that thought, perhaps silly as it is, has stayed with me for 20 years.


I know there have been days I haven’t thought about suicide.  There must have been.  But it’s been an overwhelming and constant presence for all of my adult life.  I’ve carried this depression, this hurt, with me for so long that I really can’t imagine life without it.  No, I’m not gonna go off myself on a whim.  Obviously, 20 years of life say that it’s not that simple.  I couldn’t do that to my family.  My family has kept me alive, though they have no clue.


I hurt, every damn day.  The loneliness I’ve inflicted on myself is a direct result of my  depression (and ensuing anxiety, which maybe I’ll get to in another blog).  I’ve cut myself off from friends, because I didn’t want to be the depressed chick in their midst.  And I was getting so tired of forcing myself to be the happy me they knew and expected.    So, I cut them out.  And kept hurting.  Alone.


There’s this gnawing pain in my chest, every day.  I can’t tell anymore if it’s from depression, loneliness, anxiety.  But it’s always there.  That pain that makes you want to curl up in a ball, hug your chest, and try to force your innards back into their proper place, because there shouldn’t be a hole there.  Maybe, if you press tight enough, if you pound your chest hard enough, it’ll stop.  But it doesn’t.


I am so, so so so very grateful for my friends here, who give me a respite from it all.  Who ease my battered heart by just simply caring.  By making me laugh, or letting me love them.  Just, giving me a lifeline out of the stinking swamp I’ve been living in, and letting me just be happy.  I wish ya’ll knew how grateful I am.


I don’t let on, or at least I try not to, how much it hurts and just plain sucks to be me, day after day.  And you guys make it easy.  You make it easy to laugh, and commiserate, and feel normal.  But, in all honesty, no lies or facades…  I’m dealing with some shit, every day.  This blog says some, but not all.  I guess, I’m trying to not be two different people anymore.  This is an attempt to reconcile, me.


I’m sorry if this all seems over-dramatic.  Please keep in mind I’m a writer, and everything just, comes out as it will.  And yes Jon, I’ve had a few beers.  Again, please don’t think too less of me.


I’m embarrassed, again.  Maybe I won’t delete this in a couple hours.  But, maybe I will.

Random Thoughts, V

If I’m at your disposal, does that make me disposable?  …


Fighting with my hair today. It wants to be dry, frizzy and staticy.  I want it to be soft, smooth, and shiny.  So I brought out the big guns.  I put straight olive oil in that shit.  Teach you to fight with me, hair.  Make you smell like olive oil, how you like that??  Stupid hair….


I forgot to take the trash out last night.  Found it still sitting on the porch where I left it.  Whoops.


I mostly think I’m an idiot.  A simpleton.  If I have a good idea, believe me that it surprises me as much as anyone else.


I’m so sick of feelings.  Having them, talking about them, feeling them.


Did anyone else catch the live presentation of A Sound of Music?  It was apparently so awesome, they’re thinking of doing live presentations of other musicals.  Like Fiddler on the Roof, which I’ve never seen and don’t really know anything about.


Had a dream about that guy the other night.  I’d finally gotten to his place to see him.  It was a nice house actually, big.  Pretty empty and kinda dingy looking, but totally not bad.  He took me on a tour, blah blah.  His girlfriend was in their room, sleeping, so we snuck off to another room, and were kinda holding each other for the briefest of moments, and it was this sick, but oh-so-good feeling..  And then a bunch of their friends come into the house and one of the girls runs me off – scratching my hand, I remember.  Lonnie does nothing, of course.  Anyway, that’s a dream that’s perfectly plain, innit?  Never again Viki, please, never again…


How does one, as a parent, let their child get a month or more behind in their homework?  An 11 year old kid.  I mean, sure he can be a little liar, but it’s not like this is the first time this has happened.  Isn’t there some way of checking on these things, holding him accountable from the first, so he doesn’t get punished over and over and over for the same damn thing.  Isn’t that a failing on your part as a parent, even a little?  My nephew lost his phone today, so no more incessant texting for a few days.  I feel bad, cuz he texted me around 3:30 today, and I didn’t reply soon enough.  =/


I’m still in this, “I have nothing to offer” place.  There are conversations I want to reply to, messages that make me think..  And I just feel too dumb to respond.  I have nothing of worth to add.  Why does what I say matter…  I know, I know, please don’t lecture me.  ❤


My niece cut her own hair the other day.  Apparently it’s not so bad.  And, apparently it’s something I used to do a lot when I was younger.  Does this explain those god-awful bowl-cut bangs I see in pictures?  I hope so.  Cuz if one of my parents did that to me intentionally, it was cruel.  =P


It’s not that I really enjoy cleaning/housework.  I just don’t trust anyone else to do it right.  From vacuuming to scrubbing the toilet to doing the dishes.  Unless I’ve done it, it’s not done right.


I have, so far, purchased 1 (ONE) Christmas present.  For my nephew.  That might not even get here by Christmas.  It was just really cool, and I hope he’ll think so too.  When he gets it.  Towards the end of January…


It’s 11 P.M..  Do you know where your heart is?


My brother and the kids will be coming here for Christmas Eve.  Sometime around 11 A.M..  Get it over early, I like his thinking.  But, this means the cooking/baking will be starting early early.  Well, except for the mini-cheesecakes I’ve been making him for the past couple years.  I really do hope he likes them, and isn’t just me.  They’re kindof a pain to make.  Sorry for bitching.


My eyes are feeling itchy, and my chest feeling hollow…  Keep writing…


Thinking of my last comment on my last blog, I’ve been having a lot of dreams this year.  Which I find kinda weird, because I’ve been drinking a helluva lot this year, and doesn’t drunk sleep interfere with REM sleep, where dreams happen?  Even a night when I’ve only slept like, 5 hours, I’ll have at least one, if not two dreams (or more).  More often than not, pleasant.  For months this summer, I dreamed of my first boyfriend, almost every night.  Those were good.


Does anyone have a dream interpretation site that they find reliable?  I’m curious.


Ouch.  More writing.


When I was younger, I had a sleepover at my friend Courtney’s house.  I remember thinking her family must be really rich, because she had a blanket on her bed that she didn’t sleep with.  It was just, decorative.  I thought that was weird, and kinda wasteful.


My mother once said that if she found out one of her closest female friends was gay, she wouldn’t be comfortable with them and would back out of the friendship.  I’d like to think that over the years, I’ve had enough of an impact on her that she wouldn’t feel that way.


I’ve definitely been a bad influence on my mom though.  She cusses a lot more! – I love that.  She’s open to the occasional drink – we had margaritas with my sister in law a while back, and she’s always looking for a fun drink to have for New Years.  I’m thinking of getting her some Zima.  I loved that crap for a summer when I was younger.  =P


I don’t want to stop writing, cuz there’s a pit of hurt waiting for me when I do.  Hell.


I hate Christmas decorations.  All they are to me is clutter.  And I hate clutter.  I want my dining room table empty and clean, not crammed with fake snow and stupid Rudolph characters.  I want my plant stands to have plants, not *#@%^$ snowmen candles that never get lit.  I hate the shadows that the stupid strings of fake plastic holly throw.  I HATE poinsettias!  I hate any and all kinds of tablecloths.  I hate “holiday” pot holders that you can’t use because god-forbid they get stained.  Holiday throw-rugs, really??  They stain this stupid carpet as soon as you put a wet boot on them!  …  I could list so many more things…  Sorry to be a Grinch…


Maybe I’m not in the Christmas mood because I haven’t yet seen my Christmas movies.  Yes, Die Hard and Lethal Weapon.  I’ll try to make an effort to watch them this weekend.


I feel like an ass because I have people to spend Christmas with.  And though there will be some good moments, I’ll still be lonely.  I love my family, but they’re part of the reason I feel so lonely.  I’ve tried to reach out to them over the years, and have been rebuked….


I read an article the other day about how to avoid static – I get shocked at least a half dozen times a day and I hate it – and among the suggestions was to not wear shoes with rubber soles.  Uhm, does anyone makes shoes without rubber soles?  Can someone tell me where to find good, hella cheap shoes that don’t have rubber soles??


Dolphins are among the smartest creatures on the planet, right?  And they are also one of the only species acknowledged as “rapists.”  As much as whales creep me out, I prefer whales.


I read a conversation Sean posted months ago about cutting (and other means to coping with loneliness).  I’ll end this rambling blog with a short 1 page story I wrote on the subject a while back.  To preface, I only cut for a few months or a year in high school, and was drawing on that experience among others.




She cut.

The moment the blade touched her skin, her eyes closed, her breath quickened. At the first bite of the cool steel her brow furrowed. As it slid smoothly through her flesh she hissed with the exquisite pain. She drew the blade slowly around the meat of her forearm. Each second an eternity of mindless sense and release. Drawing close to her inner arm, she relaxed, the knife point easing out.

She sagged, her entire body relaxing, collapsing with relief. Blood beaded from the shallow wound. It ran sluggishly down her arm, pooling slightly at each of the thin puckered scars that lined her from elbow to wrist

She imagined this must be what heroin feels like, and smiled to herself. But instead of injecting happiness into her veins she was giving her despair an outlet to escape. It lived in her blood, surely. The aching that coursed through her daily. Through her heart. A poison that needed to be leached.

The feeling was the closest thing to peace she could remember knowing. The angst, isolation, fear – all the pieces of her misery were expressed in the delicate slice of the knife, and for a time were lessened. Bled out.

Even in her moment of tormented bliss, she knew it wouldn’t last. Her pain would build and build until she felt compelled to turn to the blade again. Just the thought made her want to go again immediately. The anxiety felt crushing suddenly. Her eyes snapped open, a high keening issuing from her throat, which already felt it was closing.

Her fingers clenched on the handle of the knife. Feeling it’s reassuring solidity. Wood and steel, reassuring in its sense of permanence. She gazed down at her arm with wide eyes, taking in the streaks of red, the meandering tracks. They’d dried somewhat, tacky to her touch. Her breathing shallowed, a sort of shock settling in.

She wondered, for the millionth time it seemed, what she would do if she went to far. If she cut too deep. She wondered if she would just sit and watch her life drain from her. A part of her hoped she’d make an effort to stop it. Another part leapt at the thought, eager for a more permanent solution to her problems.

Even if she did call out, yell and scream for help, what would that do? If someone happened to hear her, find her, what then? An assault and battery of psychological testing, a horde of therapists, a flood of medications? And the overwhelming humiliation of being known.

No, she thought grimly, if it were to happen, she’d just let it. Give in to that darker desire, and let her life, her anguish and sorrow, spill from her until there was nothing left. Nothing but the body she’d been born into. Nothing but the husk of a person that she felt she’d become.

Tears pooled in her eyes, and a strong, overwhelming feeling of hopelessness swept over her. This was her life, her future. Days filled with increasing anguish, with a loneliness so bitter it burned like lava through her. Her only comfort the kiss of a blade. Her only peace, more pain. Her legacy a path of scars. This was all that life had to offer her? All that she could expect?

A lifetime cut short, bit by bit. A soul literally bled of its warmth. She laid her head in her hands, overcome. Her life, and her depression, had never before felt so… vital. She felt that tiny niggle of doubt, heard the faintest whisper of hope. Maybe, maybe this didn’t have to be it. This didn’t have to be her path. The thought scared her more than the thought of dying. The hope scared her.

But maybe. Maybe.

Running On Empty

It was a long day today, starting too early with a bit of a crisis.  One of my mom’s friends just, disappeared.  We’re hoping she’s just not answering her phone, having her husband cover for her.  Found out just today that this friend, Ruby – who has always been a blessing to my family – had to take a test recently to “qualify” for the job she’s been doing for over 20 years, and she failed.  Also, come to find out, last Friday she cleaned out her desk.  …  Ruby gives my mom a ride to work every morning, and when she didn’t show up this morning, mom called her cell – no answer and it’s set so you can’t leave a message – then called her home.  Her husband said she’d left like she always does.  Calling this afternoon, neither number answered.  Mom called me this morning in tears, and since we still haven’t heard anything, we just don’t know what to think.  It’s worrisome.  =/


I dunno.


Today was a fairly quiet day otherwise, but I started feeling really anxious as the night wore on.  And just super tired.  A friend texted, and we chatted and had fun, but I just felt so mentally and emotionally drained.  Tried to go to sleep early, but my body is just not conditioned for that, and this awful aching started back up as soon as I laid down.  This anxious, gnawing feeling of restlessness.  Hell, if I really wanted, I could walk down to the gas station, pick up a 6pack and drink myself to sleep.  But I don’t even want that.  I’m just so tired.




Btw, you’re right Pippa.  I do want to be needed.  Damnit..


Gonna try to get some sleep.  Maybe this will help.

Marriage, What Is It Good For?

I’ve had this thought before, but recently it’s really given me pause.  I just see/hear about so many unhappy marriages.  I’m starting to wonder again, why bother?  =/


It’s an idea that really saddens me, because it is something I really do want to have someday.  A commitment, a bond, a trust.  Something permanent.  I want that feeling of belonging to someone, having them belong to me.  (I know that’s a weird thing to say, but that’s how I feel…)


I’ve said before that I’m not a girly girl..  But even I have my fantasy wedding.  Out-doors, in fall.  The aisle covered in crunchy leaves – What’s better about fall than crunchy leaves underfoot? – and the guests all in jeans and flannel, lol.  I go back and forth about what I’d be wearing..  A dress?  Nice thought, but that’s not really me.  Jeans and a flannel?  Maybe not a great idea on my wedding day.  I would want to be barefoot though.  I like that idea for some reason.  Maybe cuz nice shoes hurt, and I wouldn’t want to be in pain on the happiest day of my life.  =P  The groom, and what he’d be wearing is totally hazy.  There would be no bridesmaids or groomsmen – unless it was important to him.  The reception would be pot luck, cuz that’s just fun.  And there’s be kegs and red plastic cups, lol.  I’m such a classy girl, I know!




I was in a relationship years ago with a man who was so amazing, and I loved him so deeply, every perfection and flaw.  I was so ready to spend the rest of my life with him.  He was planning on proposing.  But one day I woke up, and realized it just wasn’t there anymore.  I still loved him, but that undefinable spark was gone.  Losing that made me feel so empty.  I did some horrible things, unforgivable, and broke it off.  And really hurt someone I cared for…  It’s just, that feeling, of being so sure.. and then having that feeling shrivel up and die.  It scared me, really really scared me.  And still does.


It’s not like I haven’t been through break-ups before.  Some that hurt even more.  But none that scared me so.  Knowing that my own feelings could be so… mutable.  That I could love someone, promise myself to them, marry them, and possibly fall out of love…


My thoughts are all over the place, sorry.


Hell, I don’t even know if there is another relationship in my future where marriage would even be a possibility.  So what am I worried about…


Sorry, I had a clear thought going into this of what I wanted to say, and I’ve lost it.  I’m just, disheartened.

Random Feelings, I


Falling in love with love is falling for make believe
Falling in love with love is playing a fool
Caring too much is such a juvenile fancy
Learning to trust is just for children in school

I fell in love with love one night when the moon was full
I wasn’t wise with eyes unable to see
I fell in love with love with love everlasting
But love fell out with me

In Media Rêves

Poetry, Prose, Film. TV, Music, Slice of Life

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Randomz and plain stupidity


A great site

A Moderate Window

Quality of life, Reflects quality of thought.

Oh My! A Diary

{Rachel Lynn}


Read our Mission. Find out how you can help us adopt James.

Little Weir

backwards, forwards, sometimes sideways

in & out of sanity

so many reasons to empty my mind.

𝓡. 𝓐. 𝓓𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓵𝓪𝓼

𝙳𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚖 𝚋𝚒𝚐! 𝙻𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚒𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚛!


Whispers of Poetry

Eye Will Not Cry

"Eye Fly High"


Poetic Landscapes Of The Spirit

A Blog to Regret

It's hard being a teenager, especially when you're 30

The One Himalayan Messiah

An effort by maintaining harmony and balance within life to attain continous improvement - Y2K


earthquakes and volcanoes ....

Demystifying The Universe

Trying arduously & enjoying in the process :)

ShakespearInLove <3

thoughts of a 20 something girl....