In the End (A Poem)

I wish I didn’t love you.

I wish that I didn’t think about you every second of every single day. 

I wish that when I heard your name called in a crowded room, even if you weren’t there, I wouldn’t automatically turn and look for you. 

You’re never there. 

I wish that I could ignore your late night calls, hit decline instead of answer. But I don’t. I answer and we spend hours talking on the phone, and with every word that comes out of your mouth, I fall even more in love with you. 

And I hate it.

I wish that I didn’t smile when my phone lights up with your good morning text that you used to send me every day. It was only a good morning when I got that text. But then, that text stopped coming. 

I wish that I could walk away, that I could finally let you go, because all you ever do is hurt me. All you do is leave me standing there, looking a fool. You’re never there when I need you, yet I drop everything for you. Everything.

I ruin myself for you. 

Sometimes I try to walk away but then you smile at me, and it’s like the world stops. Like one of those cheesy Hallmark movies we would make fun of, snuggled up on the couch and feeding each other popcorn. The world stops turning. My heart stops beating. Then you’re gone, like the snow in the south.

I wish I could burn you out of my head. That I had never met you. That I had never walked over to your table at the cafe where you sat, looking lost and alone.

I wish I could go back in time and tell my younger, stupider self that all you’d bring me was heartache and pain. That I’d bend over backwards, give you every part of me. My heart, my body, my soul. And all you’d give me was fake smiles and cold shoulders. That you’d break me down then build me back up then break me down all over again. Over and over again. It’s the same cycle. I repeat it. 

I come back to you no matter what you do to me. Even though you’ve never chosen me first. Not once. It is always someone else. I am always the last one you chose. And you know that I always come running back.

I wish I didn’t love you. I wish that I could yank you out of my heart, out of my life. Like a broken, rotten wisdom tooth. Tear you out and slap a bandage on it. I’ll be okay. 

But I can’t. 

The truth is, that I love you. I’ll always love you. Even though you’re going to ruin me in the end, I still love you.


Back to Writing

I miss writing.

Yes, I know. That sounds strange. I mean I write on here. I’m writing right now. But blogging is a bit different in my mind. Most of the time when I blog it’s a show review or an album review or you know a rant about how miserable the world is thanks to COVID. Sure, yes, it’s writing. But I miss writing.

What do I mean by that? I mean that I miss writing. I miss creating a world and characters that are fully mine, completely from my imagination. Don’t get me wrong, I still write but it’s either poems or it’s fanfiction. I still consider fanfiction writing. I have a Harry Potter fanfiction that’s 64 pages long. I’m super stupidly proud of it and honestly, I really should just post the finished chapters on and Archive of Our Own (Ao3). I have a Supernatural fanfiction that’s a good 21 pages long. I’m taking a break on it because I got frustrated and I try to not write when I’m frustrated. It usually ends with shitty writing. I have a MCU fanfiction that I’ve been dying to write but I keep getting stuck on it as well. I recently got into The Vampire Diaries and now I’m writing a fanfiction about that in my head. I love all these worlds, that’s why I write about them because I can’t let them go. It’s why I read fanfiction because sometimes, I need the comfort of something familiar rather than something new.

But lately, I’ve been feeling a bit stuck. Harry Potter, Supernatural, Marvel, The Vampire Diaries, etc., they aren’t mine. They aren’t like my poems where all those words and feelings came from my head. And yes, I create some really awesome OCs (original characters) for these fanfictions but at the end of the day, it’s not my world. I didn’t create it. And for a while now, all I’ve been doing is writing fanfiction. I think it was because I was so afraid to actually write my own stories. So something that I did was I finally started writing again on two out of three of my original story ideas. I’m not saying I’m giving up writing fanfiction but I want my own world.

I’ve spent so much time talking about these three original stories. So much time. I’d talk about them but that’ sit. There was nothing written. And I found myself wondering why that was. I got so stuck on the world building, which sure yeah, is important, and yeah, I probably should know who the bad guy is, but I realized all of that was preventing me from actually writing. So I basically said you know what no more worldbuilding, no more trying to have the entire plot planned out. Let’s just write. And I did. And let me tell you, it worked.

Now I have three original story ideas. I’m working on two of them. The third is based off my grandparent’s old house in Fayetteville, it’s currently called “What Lurks in the Woods.” I have no idea what I’m doing with it plus writing on it or thinking about it kind of hurts since my grandpa died in 2017. Not to mention it’s a bit too similar to one of my other story ideas and I didn’t want to confuse myself. The two stories I am writing on are “The Necromancer’s Daughter” and “Ash, Lava, and Bone.” We’re going to talk about those today.

The Necromancer’s Daughter

“The Necromancer’s Daughter” is set in a world basically like ours. Except for one thing: magic has always been apart of our world. Everyone has magic. And the rare people who don’t have magic are called Blanks. (Name might be changed, might stay the same. Who knows.) So just picture our world but where magic is infused in everyday life and our history, etc. Now, in “What Lurks in the Woods” there are nymphs and fairies and all that jazz and only people who had an ancestor who was a nymph or a fairy or whatever can have magic. In “The Necromancer’s Daughter,” nymphs and fairies and all that jazz are just a myth. However, I am throwing in some Arthurian legend because I realized there was an element missing from this story. Plus it seems to fit this story. And I have lots of ideas.

Every person can do you know, basic magic like scrying and warding and stuff like that. But they also have their specialty which I call Arcane or Arcanes. There are 11 Arcanes and some are more common than others, while others are extremely rare. The Arcanes are: Havoc, Elemental, Psionic, Alchemy, Feral, Superior, Stealth, Eternal, Mystic, Savior, and Necromancy. I’m not going to explain them because I’d like to have some surprise to the story. I’m sure you can probably figure out what each means. The names are a bit direct.

Our story follows Ginger and her six friends who go on spring break and find out that Ginger’s younger sister mysteriously went to this widely popular magic school even though the school doesn’t really teach the Arcane her sister has. What starts off as a sort of comedy of seven college students going to this magic school thinking that everything is alright and Ginger is just simply paranoid turns into them stumbling into this huge conspiracy and plot that goes all the way back to the beginning of the United States. It’s going to be kind of comedic and like one of those road trip movies you watch but then as it progresses, that tone changes.

I only have around 7 pages written on this story. It’s not a lot but it’s a start and those 7 pages do a great job of introducing the main characters of Ginger and her six friends. I kind of know where I’m going. But I’m not rushing it. I’m writing until I get stuck then I switch over to “Ash, Lava, and Bone.” This system seems to be working. I don’t like forcing myself to write when I lose inspiration.

Ash, Lava, and Bone

Who doesn’t love apocalypse stories? “Ash, Lava, and Bone” is a post apocalypse story. Now, there are no zombies. Instead, think of disaster movies like The Day After Tomorrow or 2012. Basically, Yellowstone exploded and the world exploded because volcanoes and earthquakes and tornadoes and all that fun stuff.

It’s written in a different way which I’m really excited about. There are entries from the main protagonist’s journal, Emma. The journal entries start at the very beginning of the end of the world, while the actual story takes place maybe a month or so after the end of the world. So you’re reading her initial thoughts when everything started while also seeing what she’s doing now. What I’d like to do is also have like sketches included too but that’s something that would happen after the story is completed.

Emma gets separated from her girlfriend and her friends while they’re on their slow way to Colorado to meet Emma’s family. Emma continues on her way to Colorado, leaving notes for her girlfriend. Along the way Emma finds a teenage girl who has been on her own since the world started, and an older black man who is also searching for his wife and his children. Emma, the girl, and the man become this mismatched family and make their way to Colorado. Of course they run into trouble with some asshole men but they stick together.

I like that it’s three people. And that there’s not a love interest. Emma doesn’t need a love interest, she has her girlfriend. I’ve thought about actually going back and forth between Emma and the girlfriend’s point of view but I haven’t decided yet.

I really love what I have written so far. Plus it’s 22 pages. 22 pages of pure all me. And I’m loving it! Like with “The Necromancer’s Daughter” when I get stuck on “Ash, Lava, and Bone” I switch over to “The Necromancer’s Daughter.” It’s a great system, and so far seems to be working. You can tell which one I’m really inspired by.

I’m not giving up my fanfictions. I imagine I’ll go back to those when I get stuck on “The Necromancer’s Daughter” and “Ash, Lava, and Bone.” But I also want to continue this nice and steady pace I have with my original stories. Who knows, maybe by the end of this year, I’ll have one finished.

Happy writing, everyone!


Snow (A Poem)

You disappeared like the snow in the south — the snow that falls, barely sticking but we all cheer as it does, like a child, and the snow is perfect, pristine, and pure, so, so white that when you see it, it blinds you. The trees are coated in cotton balls, the branches almost crystalized like a mosquito in amber. A magical frozen picture.

But then people march all over it, soiling the snow with their secrets and lies and pain, and then the snow is gone, melting into nothing. It was only there for an hour, but oh, what a beautiful hour it was. One shining, blinding moment where everything stood still.

That’s how you made me feel.

You stopped the noise, the world with your very presence. The calamity, the fear, the cruel words that dug into my head with sharp claws, was soothed like honey on a sore throat. Like the first crisp taste of tea in the cold mornings. Everything went away and all that was left was us.

And I assumed you’d be there, next to me, like you always were, your warm hand in mind as you pulled me into the world I’d long hidden from — ashamed, afraid but you always made me feel brave. But you let go of my hand and I was left, cold, oh so cold. I reached for you and you were no longer there. And I’ve never given thought to what I would say when that happened.

The girl who scrawls words in a battered notebook so rapidly that ink stains the paper, always struggled to speak. The words getting caught in my throat like glass, silencing me with all the edges. You always had the words, perfectly delivered while for me, getting out a Hello was a struggle. When you left, you took my voice with you.

Now I can only write this and hope you see these words:

Thank you. Thank you for making me brave. Thank you for giving the strength and courage to step out of my shell and to taste the cool air on my breath and explore the beauty around me. Thank you.


Bruise (A Poem)

The eye is left to bruise,  while the sky bleeds into blues.  I take a breathe but I feel nothing,  the air a cold and brittle thing. The eye closes and cries, oozing tears of black sticky smears. 

To kiss is but lies,  all pretty words and ties,  bounding each other hand to hand.  The bruise is like a brand,  red and shiny, gleaming with fear. 

There’s only one more bottle of beer. 

Cool and sharp, the tongue is a whistling whip that makes a sharp crack into the room, and even butterflies flit and flutter in the stomach, turning a blind eye into the skye. 

The song sings I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, like the croon of an old country song, while tattered curtains cover the windows and hide the lies.


I Should’ve Loved You (A Poem)

I should’ve loved you.

You looked at me like I was the moon, full and orange and bright against the inky sky as the stars winked. You’d smile at me as I named the constellations, talking about Neverland and how I wished that there really was a second star to the right that could take me where pirates roamed, mermaids swam, and children flew. Where faith, trust, and pixie dust was all you needed.

I should’ve loved you.

You held me tenderly, as if I was something precious, like the fragile vase that your great-grandmother brought over from Europe. She’d tell you stories about the vase and how it survived the voyage from the Mayflower just so it could set on a small plywood table, gathering dust as the fake tulips wilted. Your grandmother would’ve liked how I listened to tell her stories, writing them into a beat-up composition notebook that one day would turn into a book.

I should’ve loved you.

You touched me like I was a spider’s web, strong and sturdy as it stretched from corner to corner, dew drops sparkling in the sun, until harsh hands tore it down, the spider falling to the ground, and meeting it’s end under a steel-toed boot. You understood why I was guarded and you approached me cautiously, but not fearfully. You never pushed, instead, you waited until I was ready. Never afraid of my cobwebs and the skeletons that hid in my closet.

I should’ve loved you.

But I didn’t love you. I couldn’t love you.

There was no last kiss, there wasn’t even a first. Instead, I dropped your hand after you took it and begged me to stay. I turned and I walked away. My name on your lips. I couldn’t be who you wanted even though all you said you wanted was me.


Books (A Poem)

I open the book, hiding under the covers with a flashlight in my hands. My greedy eyes take in the words eagerly, hungrily. I trace the words, pressing my palm against the cool paper, wishing that I could fall into the pages like one falls into a lover’s arms. (Have I ever fallen into a lover’s arms? No. I think not. Instead, I step into those arms. Timid. Unsure. Frightened. Wary. Those arms might squeeze me too tight.)

I talk to the books like they have all the answers. (Get your head out of the clouds, Keely, they used to say. They stole the books away, stowing them in boxes to gather dust. My brother got a book for me. Our own form of rebellion.)

I ask if they were scared when they faced the dragon, giving riddles to stave off the fear, and clutching a little gold ring in small fingers. (Did you wish you had stayed in your hole? Never opened your door. No. I think not. You enjoyed the adventure though we know you’d never admit it.)

I ask if they wished they had never got that owl and stayed under the cupboard where it was safe and sound. (Where it was dark and cold and spiders crawled all over you. Where you did all the chores and only got a scrap of crust for your efforts.)

I ask if they wished they ignored that strange wardrobe and prayed like all the other children did for father to come from the war. (No. You stepped into the wardrobe where animals talked and witches ran amuck, cursing sweets and shaving cats. Looking for something that no one could give. Only a father could. Only a mother could.)

I ask them if they regret the decisions they made and if they could, would they make a different choice?

Would they take a different path?

What was it like to face your death?

I talk but they don’t answer. So I create answers myself. I have conversations with the characters. They help me through heartbreak. They give me advice when I feel lost. They give me encouragement when I feel the weight of the world on my shoulders.

It’s no wonder my first friend was a book.

We lose ourselves in castles, surrounded by dragons, fairies, swords in stone and the knowledge that the hero would always win. Because life isn’t like that. The guy doesn’t always get the girl. The girl doesn’t always find her prince. The heroes don’t always win. The books give us hope, love, faith, courage.

You turn the next page, holding that crisp paper that smells like home, looking for something that you can’t find in the world. Books are more than an escape. They’re a solace. An adventure.


My Writing Process (Memoir Journal 4)

Memoir Journal 4 (September 22nd, 2020)

What is your writing process?

My writing process is. . . .chaotic. Inconsistent. When I write, I usually do a lot of pre-writing in my head (seriously, I’ve written like entire novels and series in my head. . . .now if only I could translate that onto paper. . .) while watching some show. Usually Charmed, Buffy, or Criminal Minds. Sometimes Supernatural or Law and Order: SVU. Once I have a clear thought, a clear sentence—a first line—then if there’s no paper around, I use my phone and type up that one line that stuck with me. That way I don’t forget it. On my phone, I have probably over 100 notes of my writing.

Often I get struck with inspiration while I’m either walking around the neighborhood listening ot music or laying in bed trying (and failing) to fall asleep. After I have that first line, I tend to jump three or more so paragraphs ahead. I skip the the parts of the story I know.

That’s when I pull out my notebook to write some “blurbs” of the same story, and even though they aren’t in order, they’re all connected. They are all part of the same story. I know where I am going with the story, it’s simply fitting all those pieces together.

After a while between my bad writing (and my carpal tunnel and/or arthritis) which becomes even more unreadable because well, it always is and it gets worse when my hand can’t write fast enough for my brain. That’s when I switch to my laptop. I type up what I’ve written, including all the blurbs. It’s during this process where it all begins to click in my head. (I get really excited when that happens.)

Once everything that I wrote on my phone or in my notebook, that’s when I start writing more. I used to edit while I typed but then I realized that it prevented me from really writing. Instead, I type until I can’t anymore. Until there are no more words I can type. That’s when I go back and edit.

I like colors. Red means that it needs to completely go. Blue means that it’s almost there but needs to be reworded. Green means it’s been edited and can probably go back to black.

Sometimes after I’ve been editing a while, I don’t see the typos or punctuation or anything. When that happens, I change the font. It helps me to see the things I couldn’t before.

What is your writing process?


Know Thyself (Memoir Journal 3)

Yesterday in Memoir, we were given these prompts. These are my responses. Enjoy. I didn’t have the writing bug yesterday so these are shorter responses.

Memoir Journal 3 (September 8th, 2020)

What path did you not take that might be worth exploring?

Towards the end of spring 2020, I was faced with two decisions: to teach or to work in the office of communication. It was a very tough decision. Extremely. I chose to be a GA at the Office of Communications at UA Little Rock. However, I wonder, what if I chose to be a teacher? Especially in this environment? How would this semester be different as a new teacher trying to navigate teaching students, while also navigating the new learning environment as a new graduate student myself? Would I have a different point of view because I’m a student as well? Would that bring a unique point of view? Would it help or adhere me? Would teaching help me get out of the funk I’ve been in since March?

Which is clearer, the facts or the emotions?

I can’t tell you what I was wearing on that day. But I can tell you how I feel. I can tell you how it was two days before Christmas and my mother wasn’t home. There were no presents and the younger three were due back any day. I can tell you about the panic, the fear that they would come home and there would be no Christmas for them.

How well do you trust your memory?

As I get older, I realize that I remember more than I thought. Memories that I thought were suppressed, or gone, are really more like a fog that’s slowly clearing out. No, I don’t remember what I was wearing, but the emotions, the words even, that is clear. How I felt was clear. And I’m remembering things that I didn’t even know I knew. Things that makes me think, oh. That’s why. Makes me realize little things about myself.

How do you feel about the concept of understanding yourself?

I feel like one of those cheesy gurus who is like you must find your inner peace. Bullshit. Understanding myself? How can I when it’s always changing? No. I can try to understand who I am, but like that’s near impossible. How can I begin to? Know thyself. Yes, okay. But also, discover yourself while trying to understand yourself.