Leaves tickle my feet as they rush into the air

The woods come alive with the red, orange, yellow, and green shimmering around me

A zephyr gently smooths down the trees’ hairs and braids them, one by one

I gaze dreamily into space, thinking of nothing 

Of nothing until one memory breaks the surface 

Seagulls wheeled around in the sky while dark waves advanced towards me

All the trees, currents, birds, and humans—even the sky—became eyes

Eyes that preyed into my soul 

I dropped into a ball

Tears sliding out

Hoping for another life

A life not filled with betrayal and neglect

A life in which I can choose

Life

The grassy slope

The dandelions bobbing up and down

The birds hopping around as if they are on fire

The petals skating down the tree

The tearstained soil

She was cherry pop and juicy fruit

She knew how to get the loot

5 inch heels and attitude

Down her back a dragon tattoo

She said 'My name is Felony

Wanna see me dance then pay the fee'

I loved her like the rest of them

Half Japanese half American gem

I was her yin she was my yang

A two girl bad ass stripper gang

We rocked the club whether day or night

Piss one of us off we both would fight

She was only 5 foot 2

You're in trouble if she takes off her shoe

Up on the stage she strikes a pose

She'd rock your world til time to close

You couldn't separate the two of us

We'd get into trouble just because

I loved her it was plain to see

Just as much as she loved me.

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'm sitting on the floor of my bathroom.

The ashtray seems to have disappeared.

Ashes from my cig in the toilet...

Ashes are all that's left

of the me I once was.

My bedroom door was kicked in today.

It won't ever close right again.

Splinters of wood are on the carpet...

Splinters are all that's left

of the girl I used to be.

There's glass on the living room floor.

Shattered when the frames fell down.

My bare feet will find shards of glass weeks after the mess is cleaned up...

I'm sliced by the repercussions of my choices,

years after the apologies were made.

There's cat food all over the kitchen floor.

His dishes are upside down in the corner.

Upside down, scattered on the ground...

It's a wasted mess, just like me.

There's a large hole by the front door.

Too low to cover up with a picture,

I don't know how to fix it myself,

Too embarrassing to ask for help.

Like the mess I've made of my life,

No hiding nor fixing this mess on my own.

That ashtray is still missing.

My shaking hand has crummy aim.

Tears leave streaks in my makeup

as they drop uselessly in my lap.

I slap my leg, the sound of palm biting flesh

is deepened on wet skin.

I like that sound.

The sizzling sound a cigarette makes

when I put it out on my thigh...

I like that sound even better.

Cigarette ashes on the bathroom floor.

Ashes, all that's left of the me I once was.

TV shows about,

“Nothing.”

Cat videos about,

“Nothing.”

People wearing,

“Nothing.”

People making,

“Nothing.”

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

No thing.

At all.

Yet, we seek,

“Some-thing.”

But it slips through our slippery fingers.

So we end up with,

“No-thing.”

Plato understood: “I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing.”

So did Tolstoy: “We can know only that we know nothing. And that is the highest degree of human wisdom.”

Even Oscar Wilde: “I love to talk about nothing. It's the only thing I know anything about.”

“Something” slips through our slippery digits.

We’re left with, 

“Nothing.”

As it began—so shall it end.

ARTWORK: Overunder & Yale Wolf

You are talking to me with philosophical hope, and I watch your words fall into the cigarette you are rolling. And I ask for a drag. The nature that surrounds us makes me forget for a minute that the rest of humanity is close enough to touch, and I catch a bird watching us. His onyx feathers reflect the setting sun, and he twists his head as though he is trying to hear what we are saying. I look at you and smile with innocent distraction, and I notice that I never realized how perfectly blue your eyes are. They are tangible crystals that can show me the past and perhaps they can predict the future, too. And I scoot closer to the edge of my seat, and a little to my right, hoping to absorb a bit of your aura. We are anchored to a bottomless pool of possibilities and the thought of it all overwhelms and excites me. I look at the fine lines on your porcelain hands and imagine the lovers with whom you have shared your magical touch. The thought doesn't make me jealous, but it makes me love you more. You fell from a place of celestial grace and into my lap, and I whisper under my breath, "I will always believe in you." You are a Midas of inspiration. Your touch opens my eyes to an alternate universe whose heartbeat lives within the fractals of This world. And as the dissipating sunlight ricochets off your exposed soul, specs of diamond dust move through the air, and I breathe deeply with the intent to inhale you. I can feel a part of you inside of me, as I digest the conversation we are sharing. Worlds apart, but cut from the same cloth, my heart wells with an overproduction of blood and spirit when I am near you. Its bulbous life flows with great empathy, so I distract myself by lighting another smoke. And now, I can hear you thinking. The sound of your intellect plays like a familiar melody that I can't quite place, but, nonetheless, it brings me the kind of comfort that I have always longed for. You are sturdy, but fragile, and I daydream about a future where what we are doing in this moment will become our everyday pastime.

You are my dearest friend.

I went into

a church

that drowned

in search of life

and what I found

was silent prayer

in empty pews;

a kneeling figure

giving news

to a weary priest

out of curtained view. 

And in that moment

I was blessed 

with the answer

to my quest,

not in stone

or sacred litany

but rather deep

inside of me. 

For a soul that's

drowned and 

seeks insight

may always 

find solace

by swimming 

upwards to

the light. 

Purple knocked on the door politely. He was sweating as if he had just exited the sauna. She always nagged and told him he was wound too tight. That he needed to relax. Too stressed. She was worried he was going to burn himself out with the amount of work he was continuing to pile up. That's when she made the call for him. Purple's friends said he's a nice guy, just an 'average Joe' who owned the local coffee shop, sold to smoke, and did some day trading on his days off. Green, they called him. 

Green opened the door and immediately recognized Purple. He had a suit that wasn't tailored and tie that looked like it was strangling the poor guy. He couldn't help but chuckle.

"Come take a seat, my man. First session is on me."

At first,

Everything is bright

Happy

Normal

Rainclouds come

Hide the sun

And I'm dizzy,

Tripping over

My own feet

How can I trip in a dream?

In dreams,

You're not supposed to feel

Pain

You're not supposed to

Ache

But I see my family

My friends

My life

Extinguished

Like a flickering light

In a dark hall.

I watch as

Everything I love

Is crushed

Under the Enemy's heel

And ground into

Oblivion

I scream

And run to help

But my feet don't move

My voice makes

No sound

My hands cannot

Help

Help

HELP

Someone,

Anyone,

Please help me

I fall to my knees

And see red

Tears of blood

My tears?

Or rain?

My blood?

No.

My sister's.

I turn around

And he's there.

My demon.

He wears my face

And uses my voice

To laugh at me.

He shows me

Things I long for;

My friend, alive.

My scars, healed.

My hopes, restored.

Then my demon

Uses my teeth

To bite down,

Hard,

And rip them in half.

I close my eyes

Against the sight.

When I look again,

I'm falling.

Falling into nothing,

No one to catch me

No one to care.

Alone.