Tag: abuse

Just A Girl

I’m the girl…  The one you think is pretty enough to take home to meet your mother, until you realize I’m a complete mess. And your mother is going to hate me for one of two reasons. The first perception and reason is she’ll judge the picture in front of her. She’ll think my life has been buckets of lemonade…

Faithful Whiskey Nights

I used to think men who drank whiskey or bourbon on the rocks had an alluring sex appeal. Their sips long and gentle. They never showed any wincing as the burn saturated their gullets.  In my mind, they compared to Rhett Butler and other southern gentlemen who retreated after their meals to rooms where they’d smoke cigars and talk politics.…

I Don’t Have A Choice

It’s time to come home. It’s time to do what these hands were made to do. It’s time to make choices. It’s time to face all the fear. I’ve ran enough, as far as these legs are willing to take me. Turn and face the monsters, the facts, and the truth. It’s time to come home, the one buried deep…

Cutting Down Pine Trees

“In the pines, in the pines Where the sun don’t ever shine I would shiver the whole night through” Nirvana “Where Did You Sleep Last Night” I’m weary from shivering. My heart aches from having to consistently walk away. I am capable of running and having my feet rip open the cracks in the concrete. Don’t follow me. Don’t track me…

An Appalachian Saga on The Good Men Project Today!

 Appearing today on The Good Men Project is my second installment in a series of three pieces I have come to call my “Appalachian Tales.” These three articles originated from a post I wrote titled, “Hickory. Dickory. Dock. Time to Write.” I was frustrated from working and living in a community where each day I would see addiction. Ten years…

Letting Go of the Past on Henpicked Today!

I had an idea for a piece. It was this one. Writing it didn’t take long. However, finding the words to translate took more than half a year.  Sometimes, before I can write I have to live. I have to notice the joys around me. I have to put down my emotional book bag, and lay in the sun.  I…

Writing Happiness

Many moons ago I found myself in a place where happiness didn’t exist. As a child, I had swollen hands from a belt. These were not the only marks. They were also placed up and down my legs and my backside. I always remember the hands. The hands put up in fear. The hands trying to block abuse. A writer…

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