I haven’t a thing to write.

I haven’t written because I haven’t had anything to write but those that know me, really know me, know that’s a damn lie. Now y’all wouldn’t let me lie to you, would you?

 I’ve been heavy and I’ve been light. Not much in between although I pretend to be for the sake of my sanity I pretend to be because we learn to fake it till me make it right. It’s only until the vision of my gravestone becomes a tangible dreamlet (yes I made up that word) that the mantra of fake it, just act as if, no longer works anymore.

In fear of sounding to Dear Diary or too journalistic I want to say fuck that and fuck you.


The goosebumps on my legs urge me to write along. So I do.

There are many things I would like to say.


About the walking. The thinking. The memories and the tragedies. The strife and the glory. The birds and the burning of sun onto my shoulders. The way we ate lunch and the crumbs that flickered off of your tongue onto the cement. The lies and the promises we never kept. You know….

all of it….

and so I write.

This is my original legacy.






I believe in letters stained in tea, mermaids, and the power of a story. I got sober in 2014 and began working in the sex industry in 2016.

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