Growing up in the middle of nowhere, where the only things around you are the woods. Ten minutes away is your small town with a small population. Down the road was the old Baptist church that my parents still go to this day. I used to sneak out of the sermon and go hide in the graveyard across the road. Both of my father’s parents are there. It’s a pretty big graveyard considering the size of my town. I would smoke cigarettes at the burnt-down old outhouse near the creek in the back of the cemetery and wait for church to be over. Over the years of growing up, I used to sneak out there in the middle of the night with my friends, or whatever boy who was interested in me. They always told me how creepy it was, but I found peace in the old cracked tombstones that grew so familiar with me as I aged. Nobody would ever dare step foot in the creek because they claimed it gave off bad energy, but I loved it. During the summer, the year that I turned fourteen, I would take off my shoes and walk in the hidden creek while smoking the Marlboro Golds that I had previously stolen from my aunt two days ago. I vividly remember one of these warm summer days, when I stumbled upon the tombstone of a little girl who was only five at the time of her death. Her death dates all the way back to the 1840s. She became my favorite grave to visit because there was a little picture of a small bunny engraved on her headstone. She had no name. I miss the woods that surrounded my house, my farm, my fields, my pond. I would run out there every day and go to this little circle I once found, with a huge tree trunk in the perfect spot to sit. I buried safe keeps in the deep woods behind my pond that nobody will ever know, and sadly, now with age, I won’t either. I still visit them when I come home, but they aren’t the same.
theartofmadeline
romaincrisis
gracieabrams
origamiaround
vaporwave
dailybridgerton
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
