I Choose Who I’ll Be


Mirror, mirror 

How do I continue my life in this story book?

If it took them one glance, would they turn completely to look?

Mirror, mirror

Often I do presume that appearance is not everything, however certainly something

Color therapy does wanders, and for some; nothing.

Mirror, mirror

I was “Vivia” in Kansas City! Flirty, thriving, confident, well-known extrovert!

“Kayla” is what they prefer in Minnesota, however all newbies, I’ll proclaim in an echoing introduction, “My name is Vivia!”

Vivian: Lively, Alive, Flourishing

I feel just so.

Concerning color therapy, concerning the impact and memory I’m able to leave on others 

In life, in business, in fun,

Mirror, mirror

Prepare yourself for a red head.

The appointment is made.

You may see people’s priorities by looking at their checkbook.


Often, I’ll hold onto any reason for me to gift myself

My priority is stability and to feel and remain “Vivia”



Who I am is who I want to be,

Mirror, mirror

Prepare for red to portray a brighter picture of me!


A Radical Fool


I don’t care what my heart might do,

These eyes may weep,

My knees only weakening

All for love and love for all

I surrender my life to living radical,

Pouring my heart unto my dreams, my passions

To see them healed

To encourage the bitter to forgive

To experience brokenness healed

To hear the silenced and scared woman sing her heart out

I do not care if I’m called a fool

I’m wasting it all on the hearts of men

Because that is what Man did for me.

I smoke the green,

Drank the red,

Choked my stomach from being fed.

Slit my thighs,

Hid until the night

Even then, beneath a hood,

Burdened by abuses,

A victim and nonetheless

I ignored Him, I ignored friends who believed in Him

He didn’t leave me

I let them use my body, I felt numb anyway

“Use me! Its all the world will do! Use me!

To fill your void of loneliness and conviction; invite me to smoke with you!

To assure you feel powerful and beautiful, have sex with me!

To be heard and not listen, throw my words to concrete, I’m here!

You tare me down, people. I give my life to understand you. I try. You abuse me.”

Said I

Said He to me

Called a fool for loving His Sons and Daughters beyond what we may have experienced love to measure,

Abused His grace, mocked His name,

Spit on the cross,

There we were put to shame

Love of God,

Permeate all my soul

I don’t care what my heart might do,

These eyes may weep,

My knees only weakening

All for love and love for all

I surrender my life to living radical,

Pouring my heart unto my dreams, my passions

To see them healed

To encourage the bitter to forgive

To experience brokenness healed

To hear the silenced and scared woman sing her heart out

I do not care if I’m called a fool

Tell me that I look like my Father,

If I resemble His heart,

live as He did,

I am quite satisfied.

For the love of God saved me in my darkest time. 

I could be dealing, inhaling, spending for drugs

I could be a prostitute on your main streets

I could be taking drug after drug to treat my anorexia, suicidal thoughts and depression

I could decide I’m a lesbian because guys never proved themselves lovely and adoring

I could be…

But Praise God,

I am not.

I am a radical fool.


A Way to The Future


I want to love well

To teach generations after me of the legacy

Pouring blood from thorns,

Nailed at the cross

If I love radically


My family

My friends

My husband

My children

My grandchildren

What a life I’d lead

A love marked a legacy


Punctured Once, Punctured Twice


Chase your dreams. Chase them until you are out of breath, and then keep running.

Arrows may puncture your body, mind and soul, but a person without vision will perish! Chase your dreams.


I ran out of excuses to pursue with my whole self, any one dream I have. I ran out while reflecting on my life since the age of thirteen. Raised in a home with a bar in the basement, the largest fire-pit I’ve seen in the backyard and an abundance of toys such as dirt-bikes, jet-skis, snowmobiles, four-wheelers, go-carts and Monster trucks. We had so much and it was stolen by actions so little; so demanding of any oxygen my dad breathed on my family.


The arrow punctured my eyes after my dad molested me at thirteen  years of age.

The arrow punctured my stomach to anorexia while I felt all men were no longer trustworthy of being capable of sporting Prince Charming’s chivalrous crown.

The arrow punctured my sides and throat, silencing my voice and creating me to curl into myself while it seemed men noticed that I’d already been damaged, and that this wounded one could be recycled by lusting older men grotesquely day-dreaming of undressing someone “tight.”

The arrow punctured my lips as I offered help and was given fear of a person traveling to kill me.

The arrow punctured my feet and legs when even men in the church wished to smell my neck, play with my hair and hide out with me. I refused, and they grew angry.

The arrow punctured my heart and mind when I was rebuked by my first love’s family after he and I had sex.

The arrow punctured my entire self after realizing the hell I’ve experienced.


Though I ran away many times, to a bottle of rum and many glasses of wine; pro-Mary Jane friends with penis’ to numb any idea of sex being a gift, and Pro-Ana (Anorexia) blogs to hide-yet-spotlight my pain and ideas of death…I have always ran toward my dreams.

I wrote and painted my thoughts, dressed in my drag emotions, danced until my heart felt it might rupture, and sang until I cried. I once smoked a cigarette hoping it might kill me right then. The feeling of death felt better than drowning in valleys of echos. Peace came then after my years of pain. Now, I sing to you that I still run. Chasing my dreams.


 I take what I learn, what I have experienced, and related it to what others have been through. Compared to many stories, mine is pitiful. It is old and minuscule. Still real, however my heart chases my dream to help women sold in the sex slave trade. I am a fanatic, chasing my dreams until other are helped as I needed to be. As I was.


“If to be feelingly alive to the sufferings of my fellow creatures is to be a fanatic, I am one of the most incurable fanatics ever permitted to be at large.” -William Wilberforce


As Pure as Gold


Contrary to the popular stereotype in our culture, there are men who fight for purity, men who win the gold! They’ve committed their bodies and minds to obey restraints required by their embraced virtues. They will be attracted to the same time of woman.

         My first love did not want to kiss until his wedding day. Well, our love needed to marry and couldn’t, so we perished in the bedroom and on the lips. He was attracted to me as my virtues matched his well. Purity. Saving our bodies and the gift of sex for one person verses the much popular and repetitive one night stands. I knew his heart before we consummated our love, so this is why it breaks mine that I couldn’t hold him true to his word. Though it takes two to tango, I forgot our dance and that led to him lusting out of love, and we loving out of lust. Like poison, our sex before marriage was.

 When I dressed provocatively for him, he understood I was interested in our sex. Our respectful relationship faded like smoke. Darkened, and gone with the wind. My values, virtues, and assets beyond the bedroom were stained by his blood, and his by mine. 


 One thing I wish I could have been strong enough to change was being of temptation to him; was changing his mind from a strong fighter to a weak sexual being. My inner person was so empty, bare, and bankrupt that I felt I had nothing to offer a virtuous man. He the same. We no longer viewed ourselves as virtuous, let alone each other.


His heart is as pure as gold. I’ve recommitted my body to my husband, whoever that may be. One regret I have in my twenty-one years of existence, is not respecting responsibly a virtue my loved one valued. 


My attitude, presentation and point of view as changed forever! My heart has been restored as pure as gold. I only hope the same for him.



He Came Back









He came back to me. His voice was more soothing than I tried so very hard to remember. A voiceless tall love. His absence had me growing fonder each year; three years total. At a wedding, of all places! I’d dreamed of this situation. A reoccurring vision in the night of how he’d run aimlessly to find me. All who knew of his mission made it more difficult for him, as our falling out slashed me. Three years ago.


 We grew so much. From the boy at the concert I’d marked “Mine” straightaway. I gave him my phone number; a girl on the rise that evening! A year later, he responded to me at his parent’s gathering. I came to this artist’s festival with an unknown mutual friend. As handsome as that first night I’d seen Mr. Rollie, he’d never looked more sharp on the unicycle of this crazy circus! We’d both changed; young tots hopping from scene to scene desperate to find where we might stick. No more entirely black ensembles, no more fringe across our eyes, no more piercings. Welcome color! Blonde hair! Smiles. Days before the unexpected “bumping into”, I’d had dreams of dear Mr. Rollie. He cried by the waters (always by the waters) and I wanted nothing but to help him. However, he couldn’t hear my voice. He simply cried, and I watched. Now I wondered, why was he crying?


I wrote down my dreams, handed them to his sister-in-law hoping the message to be received and noticed as by someone anonymous. That transfer didn’t work that way as dear Mr. Rollie called our mutual friend until the sun returned from its beaming. He found me the following day at a Writer’s workshop. I caught him studying my handwriting; he caught me! He recognized me. Within minutes, hours, days, Mr. Rollie and I became best friends who became lovers for two years!


We watched the stars, molded the clouds into shapes unknown to man and bleeding from our hearts, and eventually, our ministry of purity collapsed like the Eiffel tower falling on-top of a British couple visiting over breakfast in their land of paradise- Paris. Unfortunate, but someone seemed to have been behind the “Timber!” Death whispered its stench over us. We simply needed to marry, but were found too young; therefore, we acted married.

Sex. Amazing sex out of love; the language we both spoke fluently, daily, anywhere. Wake early to make love in the park, arrive to college classes late because we’d played in the quiet locker room. With secrets, light always travels to reveal them. Our secret was choking me, especially as his father, Pastor Pete, ministered on the topic of “Transparency.” 

                                 Be transparent with one another! This community needs no secrets or we, or you, can fall apart. We are here for you, to help you in your weaknesses.


I swallowed Mr. Rollie and my hot secret for days, weeks and months. We only kept wrestling, and now it was not giving energy but dehydrating all of our being. Someone would find out soon. We did not predict the brave soldier to reveal weakness would be me.


Three years later, after suicidal attempt, drug use, much promiscuity, months of inner-healing, many dates and Justin Bieber’s tutor (my year-long boyfriend), Mr. Rollie always awakened my mind and opened my eyes. He was always why I let those boys barely hold my hand, never as much as kiss my cheek. He is why I turned down the others, why I contemplated celibacy until the voiceless gained his voice back from the sea witch. Because I loved him, and because I love him. 


 At my best friend’s wedding, he and his sister were the musical guests. Our eyes traveled to each other all through the night. He approached me, we exchanged forgiveness and caught up. He left for Germany for two months and now is in Paris, returning home to Minnesota this week. My knees are becoming weak, my voice frail, for the one I love is coming back. What decisions he’ll make next, I’m not sure anyone can tell.


 The thought I hold onto, whether we’ll love in the future, or be the perfect strangers, is “he came back.”



Make Alive those Dead


I asked her name. That was the only question she’d easily answered. When I’d asked her dreams, her hobbies, her passion: silence fell with a rough studded stumble from her mind to her mouth, “I’m pretty boring.” she said “I stay at home with my boyfriend, we get out to visit family now-and-then, however, rarely friends. As we can only count those with almost one hand.”

“Darling, allow me to rephrase your answer. You enjoy stability with your best friend, the one that you love! You are family oriented so much, that you don’t find making new friends a tall importance. When you pursue relationships and friendships, you have tunnel vision. You give your entire self to something you’ve pursued. So much of yourself to your significant other, so much to your family and your three friends, that you don’t want to waste any love on someone you may consider questionable. You are not hurt too often, you live peacefully and certainly in bliss, because you have your boundaries. You have your trust placed where you trust it to be sitting. You are simple minded and stable.”

When we change as much as our words and point of view, how our world might change. She sees herself in a different lighting now, my coworker. Her eyes shine brighter, her chin is up and her shoulders back. A pretty picture painted by optimism.


Present your words well and make alive those dead.