Mother. Writer. Painter. Dream chaser.
Jocelyn ran her pale-painted fingertips across the old wooden door, sighing. She loved this place and now she had to sell it.
By Ivy Raye3 years ago in Fiction
Her skin reminds me of a perfect porcelain doll, the kind that are collectors items and never are taken out of the suffocating packaging.
For years I’ve been drowning While everyone around me Is breathing Underwater. It’s unsettling, And I’ve been waiting
By Ivy Raye3 years ago in Poets
It’s Not My Fault When I was in 5th grade He asked me to feel my breasts “To see how good they are.” I thought it was my fault
The platforms of my tattered boots scraped against the gravel as I dragged my heavy feet. I knew I was close but the closer I got, the more the exhaustion hit. I wanted to give up - lay in the road and wait for the savages to get me. I kept pushing myself to keep going and it was one of the hardest things I had ever done.
When the pandemic began, stores closed down. Everything that we knew and grew accustomed to, came to a screeching halt. That's when I decided I wanted to be self-sustaining. Not only for me, but my husband and kids as well.
By Ivy Raye3 years ago in Earth