The anger just won't go away. There are questions here, because there's definitely more to this than meets the eye:

- Am I mad at him for caring in a way that makes me feel small and unsteady? 

- Am I mad at myself for caring about what other people think? 

- Is it the complete loss of control that's given me a massive headache? 

- Is my unhappiness pervading every single aspect of my life right now?

- Is every single aspect of my life raiding my happy place like a crew of pirates hitting a coastal town?

- Why can't I rise above my circumstances and be a proper adult?

- Why can't I quit my job?

- Why do I care and how do I make it stop?

Stop. Stop thinking and start living. Start being yourself. 

Stop. Breathe. Remember.

Lather, rinse, repeat. I am so full of shit.

Advice is something I give without taking. Advice does not help me find the answers I am looking for. I don't know how to turn it off, the fear that drives me to all the wrong choices and places. Nothing I tell myself makes me less afraid of failure. It drives me up the wall, that I'm such a coward. In books, I am a hero on a noble quest; in real life I'm a bit of a character, but nothing about me screams "brave" - I've purposefully misplaced my megaphone. 

I stand on a soapbox, but I whisper and mumble to myself. I am not anyone's voice, not even mine. I had bigger dreams of a bigger me. Then he yells and I crumble and do the walk of shame without reason. Because nothing I did today warrants guilt or takes away from every moment of every day that I have shown myself to be a responsible person. 

Time and again I prove I am boring. Sometimes, I want to be the one in charge, because fuck fate! If I let go, I worry constantly. Something inside - something both childlike and ugly - dreads the prospect that I would dare to defy authority. I know rules were made to be broken, but I can never let myself be the one to go full-on punk rock chorus on my punk-ass schedule. I am such a fraud to the teenage skin I used to walk around in. I couldn't wait to shed it, what with the extra weight and the infinite sadness... So, now what? 

I'm hungry for more. I want to be more, be better. I want nicer clothes, cooler hair and a life of my own. I want to move out. I want to dive in. I want to forgive and go forward and be unafraid. I want to be in charge and the fact that I'm not makes me see red. Everyone has dibs, wants a piece of me, but I'll be damned if I don't steal the pie away sooner or later. Hopefully sooner, because later isn't now and "now"isn't working anymore. The present is broken and I'm looking for a quick fix. The future can't get here fast enough for me to regret it.

I'm angry and I have questions. God never calls me back. Worst. Date. Ever.     

[this is an acrostic poem, so the first letters of every line make a word/words]

I wanted it.

Saved it for long enough!

Anyway, virginity's just an idea;

It wasn't a big deal.

Didn't even really know the guy.

No idea why I had been so nervous,

Only regret not doing it sooner!

Busy going through the

daily motions of life,

we often forget what part

of the lie is real,

going about our day,

we cover up

sorrow's manifest

with a few filtered words

Never-ending nightmares

wake me with a start

once again

It felt too real

I lift my shirt to check

Nothing...

Breathe...

Just breathe...

That was a lifetime ago...

So that I can

go back to sleep,

I tell myself that

nostalgia left the

bruises on my hips,

and not him

I was fifteen, it was me, eleven older guys, and the van we so aptly dubbed as The Mystery Machine. Misfits, the dozen of us. We found solace in each other's company, and needless to say that The Mystery Machine was our home away from home. It was a place we felt free to say what we wanted to say, a place secrets were kept, a place we felt safe, it was our safe haven. We twelve lost souls faded into the night, and by three a.m. hazel eyes started driving everyone home. He drove me home last because I lived the farthest from Elysian Park. He turned off the van when we pulled up to my apartment. I could have invited him up, we could have finished the bottle of bourbon I opened up the night before, but I was scared, and even more scared of him leaving me there alone in the morning. I didn't even have to say it... He understood that. He could sense my uneasiness, so he went for my weakness and started tickling me. He grabbed my hand, led me to the back of the van, and pulled me in close. He let me rest there in the safety of his arms for what seemed like an eternity. He was so still, that after a while, I thought he'd fallen asleep. Then all of a sudden he pulled me in for a kiss while his hands made their way up my dress. He knew I was a virgin, and he promised to take things slow. He knew exactly what I needed. He knew that I needed to be loved. And in that moment when we were together as one, I was loved, I was safe, I was his, and all else was forgotten... Even if for only a night. Six years later, and here I sit writing this at a carwash, and there's a song playing in the background that reminds me of him, of us, of the rebel fifteen year old girl that I was. I'm transported back in time, and I'm wondering if he still owns our home away from home... Here's to The Mystery Machine, and all the memories it holds.

I hate life for what it's done

I hate that life isn't fair

I hate that it kills angels

I hate that it gives false hope

And then utterly destroys you

I hate that it took you away.

We swallow unspoken words

Like moldy bread,

The secrets eat us from the inside

Until parts of our bodies dislodge and

Blow into the wind.

I'll never tell you that I don't love you.

You'll never tell me that you lost yourself

Somewhere along Highway One,

Your heart hanging from the tree limbs

Overlooking the Pacific.

We used to feel so invincible

That phrases tumbled from our tongues,

Overt and pregnant with promises.

Now we have to look for

Ourselves in the cracks

And crevices of crumbling landmarks.

We used to feel so significant

That our shadows could have

Been painted on postage stamps.

Now we have to press

Our fingers to our faces

Just to be certain We still exist.

At this time of evil

We shall not fear

You may feel small as a weevil

Pray and the Lord will hear

The Lord love's all

Ask and he will forgive

He will always answer your call