The Musings of My Mind

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My Secret Love.


There’s something quite ethereal about being in love in private. At the beginning of my relationship, I wanted the whole world to know. I wanted to post cute photos of us, only for the purpose of receiving comments of approvals from my peers:


You guys are so cute!

OMG I love you guys

I’ve come to realize that none of that matters. The empty views and likes can never do justice to the sweet and intimate moments we share, all of which seem too good for anyone else to witness. I was so obsessed with this idea of him posting me on his Instagram, professing his love for me for all the world to see, because then it would be real. Any activity we engaged in had to be captured through various photos and images so the world could see that we were a fun couple who did fun things and had the most amazing love ever.


Does my love still exist even if no one is there to see it? Yes. In my case, it exists even more so. It blooms quietly as we adorn each other with love in the privacy of my home. It grows fervently with every moment of laughter we share, forming jokes that deepen our bond. It breathes life into me every time he lies next to me, his fair skin illuminating in the sun as I wonder how I can love someone more and more each day. There are times when I’ll record a moment we’re having, or I’ll take a photo at the perfect flash of his laughing, his profound dimples making my heart skip a beat. When I try to post it, I am only faced with the startling awareness of how little satisfaction I feel in letting the world in on that moment.

My original desire to be plastered all over his social media came from feeling insecure. I had never been in a relationship where the person proudly claimed me, so I needed for that ownership to be openly known. I added unnecessary stress to my relationship and my partner by trying to turn him into something he wasn’t for a platform he didn’t really believe in. I wanted him to be like every other boyfriend who’d publicly speak highly of their girlfriend’s and share how beautiful and perfect said girl is. While I chastised him for not being that kind of person, I wasn’t paying attention to the way he felt comfortable showing me love. Pay attention to your partner’s love language. I would notice the way he cleaned my room for me after a weekend together, but I wanted to post about it. I appreciated him accompanying me to things he had no interest in, but it didn’t mean anything until I posted about it.

I was, literally, depreciating my relationship unless the world gave it value.

I’m not sure when I started caring less and less about sharing facets of our relationship, but I’m glad I did. No relationship is perfect, and we aren’t exempt from that, but there is such a freedom in not being tasked with gaining others’ approval. They don’t matter. And “they” can be something or someone different for us all, but no matter what, they don’t matter.

It is him who plants kisses all over my face. It is him who stays up with me until we sort out our disagreements. It is him who has been patient and understanding as I grow into myself. It is our moments that carry me through, and I don’t think any of that is for anyone else to experience.


The Power of You.


Change is the only constant in this life. You tie yourself down to friendships and relationships, jobs and cities, and ideas about what your life will be when not a single item on your list is bound to come true. What you don’t foresee are the people who will walk out of your life, leaving you emotionally crippled and wondering the point of your seemingly purposeless existence. What you don’t expect to happen is everything you never imagined; all the pain sitting heavily on your heart, or burning in the back of your throat as you try to hold back tears months and months at a time. The heartbreak will nearly kill you, but it won’t. Losing your best friend will make you want to cling to the good times instead of seeing her for the toxic bitch she is. Loneliness will try to eat you alive and run you into the ground, but don’t let it.

As you’re coming into this new version of yourself, try not to fight it. Try to embrace these new twists and turns, and believe that you will reveal to yourself parts of you that you didn’t think could be real. Notice the strength you have in not giving in and phoning your past because it’s comfortable, and because it’s what you’ve done every other time. Praise yourself for the fleeting moments of feeling centered and balanced, despite the losses you have faced.

Believe that everything will be okay, because it will. Today, you social media stalk. Today, you imagine what you’re missing out on in the lives of past loved ones. You binge eat to keep your hands busy, and you think you’ll be trapped in this place of wallowing forever. But you won’t. Tomorrow, you get up and that person doesn’t cross your mind until noon. Tomorrow, you didn’t register that it’s your ex best friend’s birthday. Tomorrow, it all starts to hurt less and less, until it stops completely.

Change is the only constant in this life. It is an ever-evolving moving force that requires effort, adaptability, and positivity. Look from within, and then take your first step. It’s okay to be scared. It’s okay to not want to let go, but find your power and allow yourself to jump into it. Allow yourself to find the blessings that one can only be presented with once you are committed to the journey of you. Forgive, be honest with, and accept yourself. We are all imperfect beings, and that is the beauty of it all. None of us know what we’re doing; we are one giant world of baby steps. Just breathe.

It’s also important to note that this journey is entirely your own. Love yourself enough to turn away anyone who tries to disturb your peace.

That’s not being selfish. It’s self-preservation.

Recognize your power enough to understand that it isn’t selfish not to make room for those whose internal nomadism might negatively impact your journey of finding yourself. We are all deeply rooted with foundations created by those who brought us into this world. Unintentionally, we carry this with us in imaginary backpacks as we form relationships and friendships, all stacked atop cracked foundations from a past we never dismantled. Let it go.

I can’t stress that enough.

When you have that breakthrough amidst the crumbling of your life and you realize that you need to do and be better, the road isn’t wide enough to carry the baggage of your life. You are not who you were five years ago. You are not who you were one year ago. Self-care and self-love will allow you to not forget about that person, but move forward. Take what you learned from all your experiences and little by little, do better. Be better. Change is upon us at all times, but you don’t have to waver. Embrace it. Don’t be afraid it, but rather be open to what lies ahead. Allow your power to lead and guide you to a healthier version of yourself.

Let go. Let life. Let love. Let you.


Empty Spaces.

empty photo

The blood refused to stop spilling.

I stared out the window with hazed, blurry vision. Wet fingers pressed against the glass. My sister’s fading voice was shrill as she frantically zipped in and out of traffic. Her face reddening and fingers threatening to burn right through the steering wheel, she threw horrified glances in my direction as I seemingly dissolved into my seat. I imagined her tone to be a striking shade of red; piercing and feverish. Though, her fiery spirit was dwindling and she was melting right alongside my embers of consciousness. Sounds and images slowly began to evaporate. I felt weightless and airy, floating through a part of the universe I didn’t know existed.

My hands gravitated to my blooming abdomen. I sighed in relief and caressed my belly, immersing myself in thoughts of the life growing inside me. Falling deeply into my imagination, I smiled as I envisioned my baby cooing and curdling in my ear, taking her first steps as I cheer on enthusiastically. I turned over in my bed and extended my hand toward Dixon, longing to feel his warmth. I drearily opened my eyes upon feeling the vacancy, and was sorely greeted by blinding fluorescent lights accompanied by the sharp tinge of an IV in my arm. Sirens screeched and shrieked in every quadrant of my brain. Numbing vibrations echoed through my body.

What’s happening?

I turned and spotted Dixon sleeping uncomfortably in the corner. Suddenly, I remembered. Snapshots of blood running down my leg painted the walls of my mind. There it was again—red. My chest thumped relentlessly like a child discovering pots and pans. I heaved loudly as the pieces of the puzzle began to reveal the truth.

“Di-Dixon,” I sputtered.

He wasn’t waking up. Struggling to clear my throat, I growled his name in hopes of rousing him. He stirred for a moment, then adjusted to being conscious. His eyes opened widely upon seeing me lucid, then immediately glossed over.

“It’s gone. You lost the baby.” He straightened himself up in his chair and avoided my eyes.

Even through my hospital gown, the beauty of my round belly shone through. From the moment of its growth, it created a light inside me that was visible to the world. It housed a connection I felt with my baby, and I was still riding the waves of that high. My face grew wet with tears. The gruesome images increasingly bombarded my thoughts, the room appeared to be spinning, and my abdomen was cramping sorely. There was a ringing in my ear and a heaviness in my chest that overwhelmed the pain my body produced.

Come on little baby, come on. You’re still with me, aren’t you?

Woefully, I sang to my baby.

Lullaby, and sleep tight, my darling sleeping.
On sheets white as cream, with a head full of dreams.

I held my belly and I sang a song from the depths of my heart.

Sleepyhead, close your eyes, I’m right beside you.
Lay thee down now and rest, may your slumber be blessed.

I sang as the nurse sat and rubbed my back. I sang as Dixon commanded me to stop. I sang with my body, with the very motherhood I had adopted in the few months that I carried my child.

Lullaby, and good night, you are mother’s delight.
I’ll protect you from harm, and you’ll wake in my arms.

I sang with the sorrow that captivated me because this feeling of loss was unnatural. How could anyone feel this much sadness and not wither away?

Guardian angels are near, so sleep without fear.

Dixon paced furiously as I sang through the lumps in my throat and the cold glares he threw at me. My body was frozen. I wanted to break into a million little pieces, but my baby’s song held me together. It wrapped its arms around me and rocked me into healing. I sang until the words could no longer form and were replaced by cries of mourning and defeat.

Practically a stranger at this point, my husband stepped to me and barked, “It’s over, Victoria. The baby is dead, you are singing to no one. Stop it. You have to stop.”

I waited to feel a morsel of anger or sadness from his neglect, but nothing ached more than my empty womb.

“Why are you doing that?”

I’ve been home for three days. Each passing day has been more morose than the last and my assumption that I would be numb by this point was incorrect. Dixon grunts and mumbles, shrugs instead of speaking and I haven’t had it in me to fight. Until now. With the sleeves of his shirt rolled up, his tie slacked, and beads of sweat rolling down his sulking face, Dixon hacks away at the remnants of the rocking chair we put together. Unscrewing pieces bit by bit, he throws each removed part, adding to the pile of destroyed baby furniture that once contained the anticipated existence of our child. My child.

“We don’t need these things anymore,” he declares.

“And what right do you have to decide that on your own? You didn’t discuss this with me first. How dare you?”

He froze. Slowly turning around to face me while still holding onto what would’ve been the arm of the chair, Dixon began to laugh menacingly. His cold eyes danced in the contempt I knew he had for me.

“How dare I, Victoria? Really? How dare you?” He inched himself closer to me until I could feel his breath above my upper lip. “How dare you come in here and ask me why I’m doing this when you’re the reason why!”

The pace of my heartbeat quickened, my stomach began to flutter, and nausea was so deeply buried in my bones I thought I might faint from the pressure.

“Every woman I know has carried their baby to full term, but you…,” he chuckled, “you with your cravings and your…your obsession with your job. You carried on with the stress, you kept forgetting to take your prenatal pills. You were lazy. You didn’t take care of it, Victoria. You failed.”

When I was 12, I accidentally drove my bicycle into the side of a car and I remember thinking that I’d never feel a pain greater than the soreness that invaded my body for weeks. Of course, I was proved wrong through different occasions of physical and emotional pain, but here I am thinking the same thing again.

“You failed.”

“You failed me, you failed your family, and now you saunter in here and dare ask why I don’t want to look at this anymore. Who do you think you are?”

Tears began to fall from his eyes, but I couldn’t see past his darkness. The veins bursting out of his neck were throbbing as the hairs on his arms stood erectly, unwavering in the midst of our harsh winter. There was no love. No warmth. He loathed me. My husband stood before me, and while I saw him, he saw an enemy. I studied the frown that had been plastered on his face since the moment I awoke in the hospital. I took in his brown eyes, thinking of how I loved watching them twinkle in the mysterious radiance of the moon.

I wonder if our child would’ve had his eyes.

I could tell he awaited a response, but I didn’t have one. All I could do was pull his hand toward my belly and let it rest.

“Let’s play pretend,” I whispered with hope glimmering in my sad eyes.

With his hand in mine, I guided him to my hollow womb and searched for a heart beat in his eyes. Feeling his palm grip the round surface, I breathed a sigh of relief and inhaled the compassion that emanated from his intimate touch. Before I could exhale, Dixon’s hand fell. The connection was lost and he was wiping away his tears.

“I don’t have time for this.”

Quickly turning his back to me, Dixon made his way to his office as my plea for his return was answered by the slamming of his door.

I didn’t know for sure, but I believed we were having a girl.


I fantasized about taking her to a quaint park. The neighborhood mothers would peer at her and inquire about my feeding schedule, whether she’s colicky, and if I was getting any sleep. I’d welcome their advice about how to trust babysitters or what to do when I was certain that she hated me.

Sitting on the newly painted bench, I took in my surroundings as the laughter and screams of playing children both soothed and saddened me. Before I could entertain another thought, a little girl with a messy ponytail plopped down right beside me. Her tiny legs swayed excitedly as she hurriedly ate a red, melting popsicle, oblivious to the fact that it was staining the sides of her mouth and clothes. I stared at her in fascination. She looked to be about 7 and I began to wonder about what kind of thoughts swirled around my head at that age. Feeling my shameless eyes on her, she turned to look at me and smiled genuinely, flashing an incomplete grin that displayed several missing teeth. I could tell she didn’t think I was strange. As I sat up and prepared my things to leave, her squeaky voice piped out.

“Are you Nathan’s mommy?” She continued to kick her legs, her body bouncing along with the swinging.

“Uh, no. I just…I’m just sitting here. What’s your name?”


“Hi Elyse, I’m Victoria.”

She returned to her popsicle as we sat in a comfortable silence, neither of us mindful of her now sticky, candy red face. “Why do you look so sad, Victoria?”

Elyse’s concern startled me. I wasn’t aware that I appeared as somber as I felt.

“Well, I…lost something that was very special to me.”

She thought about this for a moment, then said, “Our dog ran away once and I cried a whole lot, but then Pickle came home! Maybe you’ll get your thing back, too.”

I found Dixon sitting on the floor of Amelia’s room. The sun was setting and it shone a mixture of lazy orange and pink rays into the unveiled window. I stood in the doorway and admired his athletic frame as his fingers danced along the edges of scattered wood fragments. The door creaked as I leaned more heavily on it, and he turned to face me. His eyes exposed his sorrow and defeat, the starling confusion that had stumped him. His shoulders sunk, and he wept.

“Vic…I…I don’t…,” he stuttered.

He was as broken as me. A chill went through my spine, and I was reminded of the first time I saw him. It wasn’t love at first sight, but time certainly stopped moving as I was swept up in the shiver that consumed me when I watched him that day. Now here we were. Dizzy and out of breath, inhaling the fumes of grief. I knelt and lied on my back, feeling the plush material of the baby’s rug on my skin. Little by little, tears flowed from the corner of my eyes.

“I don’t know how it happened.”

I confessed to the twilight of the dusky sky. Swallowing my husband’s darkness, I placed my head on his lap. He stroked my locks and we wandered about in each other’s mystery. We stared intently at one another as despair dripped from his eyes like the melting cherry popsicle. Dixon’s hand timidly reached for my womb. He let his palm settle, and I closed my eyes as he submerged himself in the abyss.



“Hey, how’d it go? You didn’t let me see what you tried on!”

She looked hopeful, kind of excited. Knowing I was disappointing her, I gave my best friend a thumbs down sign and frowned.

“They just looked stupid, I didn’t feel sexy.” Hanging them back on the returns rack I turned to face her and put my hair in a ponytail.

“I’ll be right back, I have to pee. We’ll look for more stuff when I come out.

I locked myself in the bathroom stall and sighed as my eyes threatened to flood.

You’re pretty, but you let yourself get fat and now you’ve got nothing left. The clothes you picked didn’t even fit you. And you even chose bigger sizes. Ha!  You’re hopeless.

I stared at the toilet for a moment. My face drooped, followed by my shoulders slumping.

I walked the few steps to the sink and washed my hands. I tried to avoid eye contact, but the intense desire to torture myself yelled loudly.

Look at your face. A round face has never suited you, and yet, you pile it on. One meal after the other…One dessert, two desserts, three. You blame it on depression and stress and say that’s how you deal with it, but if you know the cause, why not fix it? Why you are still about to hunch yourself over the toilet bowl and purge yourself because you don’t like how you feel after three slices of pizza? You’re pathetic. All your friends run, they exercise, they can say no.  And there you are with no self-control, no good reason as to why you are the way you are.

 Once finished, I approached the toilet.

It’s sad, really, how fat you are. How much you let yourself go. People tell you you’re not fat because they know how it would make you feel if they were honest, but you’re fat. You wore a one-piece the last time you went to the beach, so what does that tell you? You have to suck in your gut over and over and over…because you’re fat.

I layered the seat with toilet paper.

It’s pretty funny watching you try to exercise or eat right when the first chance you get, you’ll justify having the brownie. You’ll justify not going on that walk, not working out, not doing anything but sitting on your lazy ass all day. You’re not depressed, you’re just lazy. Your pants don’t fit you, you can’t squeeze your dresses passed your thighs, and you have now reached the point where you can’t suck in your muffin top.

My fingers trembled. My jaw clenched. My stomach churned. My mouth grew wet and cold. I spit into the toilet and mentally prepared myself.

Do it.

I contemplated washing my hands again, but berated myself for hesitating.

Just get it over with.

I opened my mouth slightly, then widely as my fingers reached the back of my throat.

Why do you think you’ll ever be more than what you are now? You’ll never be great, you’ll never make a difference, you’re not special or different…you’re nothing. Actually, no. You’re a fat nothing.

So, go ahead. Get comfortable and do what you do best; take the easy way out.

My throat burned. My face was wet with tears. My eyes were ringing. I was disgusted with myself, causing more to come out than anticipated. All the while, I didn’t stop.

You’re useless. 






I lie at your feet like a begging child.

Hoping and praying that you’ll love me back.

I scratch at your back door like a stray cat,

Waiting for a morsel of affection.

I unapologetically give my all…

Imprudent and weak,

Feeble like a branch

And continuously in amazement of

What you have the power to do to me.

Sorrowfully disappointed with what I

Allow and ceaselessly accept.

I lie under your arm and

Listen to the sound of you existing…

Taking you in each time I inhale,

Exhaling expectations and things I deserve

Because I unapologetically love you

More than I.


“What does it feel like?”

“I think about that all the time. I don’t even really know how to answer that, though. I’ve heard it described as getting punched in the gut, but that’s not…that’s not how I would describe it. It’s just…a constant churning of sadness in the pit of your stomach. You don’t really notice it’s there because you go on about your life and your activities, but the second you even smell something that brings you back to that place, it’s over. Over time, you get the hang of it, but it’s a process. It just feels really bad, you know? Like, yesterday, there was a whole person there. They were alive and they were laughing with you, they were yelling at you and making you feel like shit, and out of nowhere, there’s this eerie silence that you can’t seem to understand. You know, you call them and call them and listen to their stupid voicemail because one day, they’re going to pick up. They’re going to tell you that it was all a really mean joke and they’ll be at your house in an hour. But that’s just the hope talking. I think there’s some self-hate in there too. Some sick need to torture yourself because if you actually loved yourself, you’d force yourself to face the truth.

“And what’s your truth?”

“I’m really sad. And I think that’s the only real feeling I’ll have for a while. “

Here Is Why It Is So Hard To Be Single

Single Gal Starting Over

I am a very independent person. I can also be introverted and stubborn and opinionated. I like these things about me. I think it is what folds into making me unique. I realize that those things do not necessarily make it easy to be around me, but that is not why I am single. It is also not why it is hard for me to be single.

I don’t struggle with the loneliness, the empty bed, the lack of physical intimacy or confidant. I do just fine cooking and paying for my own meals, and treating myself to something special every once in a while. I know beyond any shadow of a doubt I would rather be alone than be with someone that I know for a fact isn’t right.

It is hard to be single because I want so much to have someone to love, and someone that loves…

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&She Wanders.


Off you go, little one.
Into the land of the unfulfilled..
To sow the reaping
Of how you managed to lose yourself.
You weren’t happy then,
You aren’t happy now.
You’re doing it wrong,
Try again.
Tip toe across the night sky..
Across the plains
Across your sobs and cries.
To get where you’d like..
If you ever figure that out.

I didn’t know it then, but the name of my blog is quite befitting. My words and thoughts betrayed me this evening, guys. I’m filled up with so much that I don’t even know how to get it out. I’ve tried approximately 11 times to complete something I was writing, only to be unsuccessful at my attempt of opening up. I’m just not ready yet, is all. I am…lost. I’m wandering and I’m lost. These last few days, I found myself missing my old life. Then it dawned on me, I wasn’t happy. I was quite miserable, I was just having such a great time filling up the void with the wrong things. Now that I’m clean, I’m not doing anything but spending time alone. I’m getting reacquainted with myself and…’s hard.

I’m starting to try to write sentences write filled with air so I’ll stop here. I’m just…lost. I’m beginning to define the fucking word. Cool picture though, right? I’m going to use it again at some point when I have something real to say.

Why is that music is the only thing that ever makes me feel safe.

Shameless wanderer signing out.


[On the Fly]

I think it’s sad when people feel that they have to go all the way every time. I mean this in the sense that for most people who’ve had sex, sex becomes the end all be all of intimate encounters. I won’t pretend to be some enlightened being who’s moved beyond making the beast with two backs. Truth is, I love sex. It feels good. That being said, sometimes I just don’t want to go all the way. Sometimes I just want do what the virgins do; do what I did back in high school, make out.

I want kissing. To be kissed and to kiss all over in return. I want clothes on–well, pants on. I miss the sound of clothes ruffling on clothes. There’s something intoxicating about knowing you could have something but not taking it. Making out after you’ve lost your virginity is akin to a…

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Skinny Love


I’ve been trying to write this for a couple of weeks.

In each half-written post, I explain my inability to produce anything worth reading, how my mind has been completely blocked, and how I’ve abandoned my blog and the followers who enjoy reading my work. The problem lies in executing this apologetic post.

I can’t make it sound like…me. Like it isn’t forced. Because it isn’t, I swear. I really do feel terrible for giving up, but it just sounds like I’m trying to be witty and just…no. So I’ll just say this:

New and old followers, I’m not a piece of shit. I promise. Life has just thrown me slightly (majorly) off balance and instead of pouring my energy writing and creating amazing works of art, I’ve just been watching a lot of HBO and riding in cars with boys. Okay, not the last part. Just work and television. I’ve been working on two stories that’ve actually captured my interest and thy actually go further (farther?) than a paragraph and a half in length. I’m taking my time with the both of them, but I’m glad I’m at least working on something. Exercising my brain/talents and all that.

I certainly have missed WP though. I can’t believe it’s been a month and four days since my last post. Which was about my cat -.-
If that doesn’t just spell out my sheer piece of shitness, I’m not sure what will.

My WP app has been lounging in the corner of my phone, glowering brightly and not withholding the judgements only I can hear. It whispers loudly in the middle of the night and calls me a fake writer. It mocks me with notifications of new followers and then tells me these new followers will soon realize their mistake.

Seriously though, I’ve felt crappy for not keeping up with this. I suppose not crappy enough to do anything about it right? Not anymore though. I miss the interaction. I miss reading your posts, the community, the support. I miss feeling like I belonged somewhere and helping others feel that way too. I’ve filled my phone with incomplete entries in my Notes, and I’m just going to put them all together. They’re all about the same thing so it’ll make sense in a weirdly interesting way, I’m sure.

I suppose I’ve to thank a friend for inspiring me. That and myself for rummaging through my page, surprising myself with certain works, and reading posts from you guys. It filled me with sadness to be missing from this world.

I have a lot of catching up to do, but it feels nice. Let’s hope I’m not doing this again in another few months…
Im kidding.