When my blog becomes a wasteland. Where words don’t live.

She writes the grossest words. They fill her pages. She can’t stop. Her fingers are tireless. Her emotions are tireless. She is tired. She is dying.

She can’t share it with anyone. She can’t tell them. She can’t unload all of the vilest things she’s seen and heard because of it.

She is tired.

She hears a voice. From a three year old without the grossest words plaguing her mind. The three year old is singing. It is the sweetest sound.

She’s pulled from her mental walk down a dark path and gets up to stir their dinner.

But she won’t forget that the words on her lips were very bad and not to be shared.