Venom

A Word to the Wise


Your words are venom–

The kind of venom that gets beneath the skin and spreads like a bug bite.

A bee sting.

The kind of feeling you get from someone repeatedly pricking every inch of your skin with a fine needle–

You’re bearable, but miserable.

Your skin is corroding beneath the negativity lining subtle words,

Bringing death closer than it was before,

And deepening the creases you thought were signs of age–

And time,

But I realized you words were laced with experience.

Times when you had to fight beneath your skin while you listened

To adults tell you how to live and how to be.

I realized you didn’t have much of a chance to be yourself,

Because you had responsibilities and weights that brought you to your knees.

Your words aren’t venom,

They are burning because you didn’t allow yourself to cry

Over the loss.

My Campus Letter

A poem I wrote during my Senior year of college.


I am going home.

I am leaving, but I hate saying good-bye.

Good-byes are hard, and they aren’t honest. You can’t look someone in the eye and tell them it’s good that you’re leaving– 

So here I am

Standing–

Looking around at empty spaces,

Thinking about the students melting away in plastic chairs,

Waiting for their day to start.

Why am I here?

Give me back my sophomore year–

When my friends sat on the quad and played guitar music,

And started paint wars, flour wars, and water balloon fights.

When my first impression consisted of the random girl sitting in a tree reading

And people called me a hippie, because I ran in my bare feet.

Give me back the late nights at Omlette Spot, and white-girl days at Starbucks,

When we used to think the “Why?” questions, and found ourselves in the stars–

When we sat with our legs crossed, shuffling through a deck of cards–

Give me back my friends,

The people I shared my life with,

And the people who loved with their whole selves,

And not just with their words.

Give me back the girl I was sophomore year.

I want to feel light again, like I can fly,

And find off the wall dreams.

Give me back my piece of something…

But I am leaving.

And this short span in my existence is coming to its end–

So the bell rings.

My mind rushes forward as I see students pour out from their classes,

And relief leaves me.

I bow my head, smile at my bare feet, and close my eyes.

I guess this is good-bye.

10 Things I’d Tell My Freshman-self

  1. Do not prop books on tree branches–they will fall and scare the heck out of the blonde girl in your American Lit class.
  2. Take two flashlights when you go caving, unless you feel like wandering through a cave in the dark for a few hours.
  3. The Christian Studies guy is a total prick.
  4. I’m sure the blonde jock seems charming and sweet, but don’t fall for it. Trust me.
  5. Measure your trust in teaspoons.
  6. Join a sport just to see if you make it. You can find some of your best friends on a team (like cross-country!).
  7. Move off campus for a year, but do NOT sign any year-long contracts. Sometimes your friends (roommates) try to screw you over.
  8. Your roommates are all lesbians. They aren’t just having sleepovers in there.
  9. Don’t throw away Jenga. You will miss it, and it was supposed to be your best friend’s birthday present!
  10. Last of all, PLEASE have fun. And not the kind of fun that people tell you is fun–I’m sure most of the parties in town are just full of testosterone and they smell like feet.

This is Not a Black and White Story

I am scared of a lot of things.

I’m scared of ISIS, terrorism, disease, and people hiding in the dark, waiting for people like me. I am scared of him. I am scared of being alone, and having no one to go to. I am scared of disappointing my parents, getting pregnant before I get married, and not making it into grad school. I am scared of school. I am scared of losing everything, and dying before I get the chance to live,

But I love running outside in my bare feet, and making up words to songs. I love driving when everyone else is sleeping, and pretending like I am the only person left in a small country town with a name no one seems to remember. I love talking about nonsensical things with friends, and drinking underneath the stars that fall along the river.

My fears will not stop me from walking outside, and breathing in freshly cut grass, or the crisp mornings lining my windows. My fears will never leave me, but my love for life, and for people, will fuel enough excitement and energy to search for more.

More than black and white, and more than memories left behind in pictures.

I am writing this blog so I can continue to move past the darkness pressing into my sides, cutting into my lungs, while I look into my past. I want to breathe again, but first–I need to start from the beginning. Or maybe from the middle.

This is me.