I'll bet you $10 that right now

there's a guy dipping his Banquet Dinner

chicken fingers

in the brownie that it comes with.

I bet he's got a system where he knows

how long to microwave it

so that instead of a sponge

it comes out like sludge

and it's prolly the best part of his day

I'll bet you $10

that there's a balloon in the air

somewhere.

With a note taped to the side

words that will never be said

and that those words actually mean something

special.

I'll even bet

on a cigarette

in the mouth of someone who just quit.

And in that guy's head

is dopamine and dread

cuz he knows this one isn't

his last.

There's probably someone

driving their car,

and singing along to the raido

with conviction and pride,

all of which dies

when they pull up to someone

with their windows down.

'course I don't have the cash

so don't take me up on it.

I just spent my last

on a coffee

from the gas station.

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.

Human bodies

can't be buried

just anywhere.

We like to think

our mortal meat

is so special.

"My son got into Columbia University!"

"My daughter is going to be attending Stanford next year!"

"Princeton! My daughter is going to Princeton!"

My son is going to our town's community college.

"Well my son is going to study medicine!."

"Oh? My daughter is going to be studying microeconomics!"

"Law! My daughter is studying to be a lawyer!"

I am so very proud of him.

The deepest secret

that I never told

was that I killed a child

when I was thirteen.

She was bright

and dreamed

of space travel

and of inventing fantastic machines.

I yanked her from

her fluffy bed,

dragged her to the living room,

turned on the TV.

I stabbed her eyes

with a steely knife

formed of 

pictures

of sand dunes and 

of tanks exploding.

And I whimpered to her

as darkness

replaced the life that bled from her:

"That is where your daddy is"

I took a gun

and shot her ears

with the cries

of starved children

and the shrieks of vultures

ready to devour.

And I screamed at her

through salty tears:

"It's too late for you to save them!"

Her knees wobbled

somehow still alive

on life support

from the small light of hope

that drove her youthful soul.

And so I mustered

the shred of strength -or fear- left of me,

to explain

in a soft whisper

that some people

lose all hope

that they extinguish their light

entirely.

And at this, her color drained

from red

to white

to blue,

the same colors

as it happens

that her father

could be wrapped in.

I killed a child

when I was thirteen.

I killed a child

and that child was me.

#ProseChallenge #DeepestSecrets

I'm not gone.

I'm still here.

Just lurking in the dark.

Watching writers

Write their words

And debating on taking part.