She was five-foot-four, plus six inches.
And with a name like Maddie, pronounced like Matty, she liked to dress like a boy but politely corrected anyone who called her a boy.
She kept her blonde hair that was dyed black, long, her eyes naturally green but she preferred to wear blue contacts and wore men’s watches in gold. Her nails were grey, always grey, oval shaped that dug into my back every night.
She was five-foot-four and she made money on tour but her socks were always at the edge of my bed. Maddie was messy, money and cocaine scattered on the floor but she had this little box of treasures hidden under her bed.
I have her name tattooed on my bicep, and she has mine on her hip; we did it just to prove that we would do what we said.
I was twenty-two with nothing but a pocket of truths, but I gave her everything I had.
About the Creator
Nina Pierce
just a lonely cat girl with a masters in counseling trying to make it as a writer
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Passion
Passion. Some days, I feel that word is overrated. I mean, what is passion? Who defines it? Passion; feels like an all-consuming fire that envelops all your hopes and dreams. It can burn as brightly as you want it, or it can burn down everything you were working towards. Even though we strive for passion, passion can kill us. It's not always worth it, even when it feels like it is.
By Nina Pierce3 years ago in Poets
Comments (1)
This is raw and evocative, with such a vivid, messy beauty. You’ve captured a whirlwind of love, chaos, and passion effortlessly. It lingers long after reading.