Lets Talk About Honesty, Baby

Yeah, that's me. #censored
Yeah, that’s me. #censored

That’s right, you salacious little morsel of verbal sexiness. You vixen of verbiage. You punchy pornstar of prelection. Honesty, this one’s for you.

I want you to know, Honesty, that honestly, I love you. I adore you because you were there when I wasn’t being myself and someone needed to make sure to remind me of who I am. I cherish you because we love to hear the truth when all that we know are lies. I dig your candor, and I treasure your stray from the common glib. I love you because you are everything our everyday speech tries to be, and because you make each and every one of us a better person.

I have to be honest, though, you honestly aren’t what we want. You must realize that it’s important to be disingenuous when speaking to someone. Frankness hurts feelings, and so dishonesty is the only way we can enjoy the proclivities afforded to us by any of our fortuitous circumstances. I love to eat good food, so when someone tells me they prefer someone slimmer, it hurts. Most people call that fat shaming. And honestly, Honesty, that’s why we avoid you. Standing at 5’7, I’ve been told by many women that they prefer a man who is much taller, I don’t like it. Is that considered height shaming? Probably, because some of us don’t like it, even if it’s the truth, we don’t want to hear it.

Some say the truth hurts, and the truth is, we don’t love you unconditionally, Honesty. I know it hurts, but you must understand that we only love you when your words sweeten our moods or brighten our days. We only love you when you lift our hearts and tickle our spirits. Most of all, Honesty, we don’t know that we even love you. So, I wrote you a poem, heavily inspired by the movie we love the most: 10 Things I Hate About You


We love the way you make us feel
And the way you make us smile
We love the way you look at us
Even how you love our style

We love your big dumb comments
And the way you read our mind
We love you so much that it makes us sick
It even makes us rhyme

We love the way you’re always true
We love you to the sky
Because we love it when you make us laugh
Even more because it makes us try

But honestly, we love the way you’re not around
And the fact that you didn’t stop by
But mostly we love the way we don’t love you…
Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.

Sorry, Honesty, I was just being honest. For the sake of humanity, we cannot continue to lie about our relationship. If someone has to be honest, I only prefer them to say things I like to hear, that’s just how I feel. I know honesty is, honestly, about the truth and not about what we want. So don’t let someone tell me I’m not thin enough for them (fat shaming). Don’t let someone tell me I’m not tall enough (height shaming). Don’t let someone tell me I’m not pretty enough (face shaming) or rich enough (wealth shaming). Don’t let them tell me I’m not sweet enough or mean enough (personality shaming). Don’t let them tell me I’m not young enough (age shaming) or smart enough (intelligence shaming). Don’t tell us, don’t tell us, don’t tell us. We like to live the way we live, no matter what, no matter if it makes us feel mad or sad or generally bad. We don’t care… because honestly, we don’t want the truth. Not even a little bit, not even at all.

Sincerely, and with love,



Mother Dearest (Writing Prompt)

Apparently, I’ve had this blog since dinosaurs roamed the earth, so here’s a fresh start. I’ll primarily post stories (or storytelling poetry), so if you like reading thrilling or suspenseful writing, then you might enjoy it here. :) Anyway, here’s a story I posted over on Tipsy Lit. She posts a prompt every Tuesday, and occasionally I pop in and post a story. Hope you enjoy it. If you do, please head on over to her page and vote! If you don’t, well, feel free to tell me in the comments. Story below.

This image shows the back of a blonde woman hiding a large kitchen knife behind her back.
She has a secret…

Mother Dearest

I stood at the window, and on the other side of the frosted glass was an ocean of snow burning with a golden sheen from the early morning light. Although toasty in the room, I still felt a chill run through my body when my mother spoke after I put my hand on the crisp window.

“Get your greasy fingers off there, Alice. Look, you’ve smudge it!”

I sat across from her and said, “Sorry. I’ll clean it later.”

“You better. You know, your sister would never do that.”

I muttered, “I know.”

“Stop that mumbling. You’ll never find a husband if no one can understand what you’re saying. Sarah had no problem finding a good one, why can’t you?”

“Mom, I’m perfectly capable of finding someone.”

“You mean that lesbian?”

“She has a name, mom.”

“Don’t matter if she has a name or not. She’s going to hell, anyway. You, too. I always knew you were wrong in the head.”


“Don’t you raise your voice at me, young lady!”

I slammed my fists on the table, stood, and paced across the room. My mother refused to look at me. Bitch. Couldn’t even look me in the eye while harassing me. If my father was there, he might have told her that I deserved her love as much as Sara. Sadly, he was gone. So, it was up to me to convince her I was the better sibling.

I said, “I finished college. Did you know that? Sarah didn’t even go.”

I could feel my mother’s cold snicker burning my skin. “If you didn’t waste your time doing sinful things with women you could find yourself a nice man and wouldn’t need school. Derek takes care of Sarah, so she has time to spend with her family.”

“I’d rather be independent than a leach like you and Sarah.”


“Don’t act so surprised. After daddy died, you had no way of supporting yourself.”


“Oh, really? So, Sarah and Derek don’t pay all your bills?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about. It figures, too. Always trying to prove you’re better than your sister with your lies,” she said, and then laughed. “That’s all you do when you open your mouth. Like when you put Uncle Charlie in jail. That’s right, we all know you just said those nasty things because he didn’t want you. No one wants you. You’re just a little whore that—”

I smacked her hard, finally silencing her. Her head angled toward the window, and she stared through the glass at the wintery wonderland with her glazed, dead eyes.

“Sorry, mom. Want breakfast?” I asked as I retrieved the cleaver from her skull. “I’m making eggs.”

“I hate eggs,” she said.

“Fine, then starve. That’s all I’m gonna make.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to cook.”

“Damn it, mom! Can’t you just stop for one fucking minute?”

She refused to look at me. She just stared out that window and laughed.