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.

This heart of mine

stretches and bends

to fit any mold

It changes its

shape and color

to meet the needs of

each soul it comes across

This play-doh heart of mine

has been left out to dry

It's cracking and crumbling

Falling apart piece by piece

Unlike the brightly colored doh,

my play-doh heart can't be

softened and restored with water

It requires something stronger,

tonight I'll submerge it in

a bottle of Jameson

in hopes of restoring it,

if only for a moment

This play-doh heart of mine

stretches and bends to meet

everyone's needs but mine

Content. 

Wrapped in folds

Of closure. 

You are

Nothing. 

You are

Forgettable. 

Delusions. 

Hate and fear 

Locked 

Hand in hand. 

Just a 

Chip behind

That none 

Can fill. 

You are

Your own

Worst enemy. 

Nothing comes close

to the skin she wears.

hatred knitted into

fibers of her bones.

stolen soul, and hidden,

deep, within evil dreams ...

no yesterday's lift her head.

blood washing down drains,

with secrets to keep,

and a gullet full of whiskey to 'mend' ...

How about,

Fuck you.

yes, hatred is real.

Hatred is felt.

Hatred is lived.

Hatred is betrayal.

Hatred kills and

sends unwanted souls to hell.

pain is only but a scar,

it scabs, it heals

and you move the fuck on.

Hatred is forever ...

It's what you hog tie

as you beat it

like a piñata,

laughing in the face of weakness,

squealing in fear,

giving a half assed attempt for forgiveness.

but the damage has already been done ...

These walls were once pure

and white as snow

But frankly,

that was a lifetime ago

I stole their innocence

in the darkest hours of the night

I forced myself upon them

and stained them

to match the color of my heart

Like a sponge,

they absorb everything

They're cracking and crumbling

under the weight of keeping

all my secrets safe

You're not just a

lost and empty soul

longing to feel something

You're a beautiful and gentle soul

with a bleeding heart

You and I are a different breed

You stay awake to avoid the nightmares

I close my eyes to escape the nightmare

We hide acoustics in our closets

instead of skeletons

I know that when I let these

tears of highly flammable liquid fall,

You'll use a match as a pen

to write me words sweeter than honey

and reignite the dying embers

You're a true wordsmith

who bleeds words

You think in poetry

And know the difference

between sympathy and empathy

We survived the war

All that's left to do

is rebuild the town

that was once painted black,

and find that happy place

we writers dream about

With each other's help

we'll get there one day

And know that in me,

you'll always have a friend

Darkness has settled in around me.

I've worked myself into the ground. Dawn until beneath the moon.  The cicadas and the frogs of my youth cry out.  A break from the labor to light a smoke and rest my overworked legs. My ears embrace the sounds of the southern night.  Calling out to me like a prodigal friend.  They are different now without you.  I hear a different tune. Somber and low. A silent grief upon the hills.  A heavy sadness.  And I look up to the darkened windows. Where once there was such life and warmth. The house sits empty and unfinished.  A shadow of the past. Nights on the front porch swing and cracking walnuts on the drive.

Its almost as though you're still there.  Inside that facade of the house you built. From the life you gave us. I almost expected you to greet me at the door and usher me inside for breakfast and coffee stiff and black. 

But you never came. Even today its too hard to wrap the sordid mesh of my brain around your absence. 

A house without a lady. Fields without an owner. A family without a Matriarch.  A black sheep without a Grandmother's gentle hand filled with faith.  And I miss you always but even more so today than the day before.