Writing used to be the source of air within my lungs. Somewhere between not ever getting my driver’s license and graduating college I let growing up, anxiety, discouragement, and mental illness take away the joy of it. I’m very carefully nurturing this flower back to life again.
I have the same name as my mother—call me Becca. I am quiet, but I have worlds in me. My presence is easily forgettable, but I always fit better into words than into conversations. I am empathetic, but easy to piss off. I am a garden with all it’s petals and thorns.
p.s. Oh, yeah, I’m a petty bitch, too~