Old Mexico

I lost my soul in old mexico.

Most people give in to sensations, temptations of the flesh, and the purity of that white alcohol they pedal down there, but not me. No, I chose to deteriorate from the a punch drunk love of life.

Darkness tried to liken itself to me. Pour inside my body when I was sleeping and take control over my emotions, but I fought if off with the healing power of self gratification.

Not even the sounds of mariachis and screams from the Mexican hookers in their cheap hotel rooms could soften my spirit.

I'll admit, I was tempted to stray from the broken path, but I followed it all the way down to its depths.

A phoenix, doused with water.

A butterfly, transformed into a moth.

I fell hard in old mexico, and promised never to leave.

To love.

To run free.

Winding Backwards

Reckless abandonment, leads to hopeless dreaming, but what are we without our dreams?

The cold, stale, hatred from life is constantly breathing down our necks.

Instead of ignoring it, we prod and provoke the hornets nest.


I do so declare, that any living being, should do so in deed.

Grab each moment as if it were your last.

A very contrary saying, but significant throughout the centuries.


Time grows smaller and smaller.

Youth looks forward to growing up, while the old wither and perspire.


The optimism, is that there is more for us out there, beyond the stars.

The realist, understands that this might be it.


My biggest fear, will be my biggest regret; to enjoy the little things.


I reject self reflection for my past sins, but instead look forward to creating new ones.

Without them, time stops.


The clock stops ticking.

Black and White

As I step outside I smell that familiar tint of burning ember.

The cold whips me in the face,
as my nose crinkles into that black and white scarf that belonged to my dad.

I refuse to buy a new one,
because to me, their is a familiarity and history with this one,
so I will do anything to preserve and protect it as long as I can.

Often times people turn their back on the old
and drown themselves in the excitement of new and shiny,
because to them, the old and used is dirty and dingy.

These people often justify that by ridding themselves of the old,
it will help them move on and begin a new life for themselves,
rather than cling to the old one.

Sometimes we all need to remember the sins of our fathers,
and the haunting pasts.

Without these memories or thoughts,
we can sometimes forget who we are,
and let arrogance drown our former selves.

Smiling

Lonely Girl,
I see you.

You flash that brilliant smile
and shake your violent hair
but the pain is evident
and I worry for your sanity.

We can only fake it till we make it so long,
before the seething black liquid runs its course
hardening your veins,
heightening your blood pressure
and destroying your true self
along with everyone you know.

Stop trying so hard to be seen
and except the emptiness that follows inevitable loss.

We all want to be happy,
but happiness can sometimes be the familiar,
the unexpected,
and the beauty in simplicity.

Accept it,
learn to love,
then end it.

Babs

Snowy steps,
and icy air,
encapsulate every fiber in my bones.

Instead of sulking alone,
I cook a four course meal,
pour a glass of chilled Sauvignon Blanc,
and dance to that old song spinning in my head.

I find the temptation to cruise the Internet and feel bad for myself,
admiring others lives that appear better than mine,
but suddenly realize theirs is equally terrible,
and they are simply basking in their five minutes of fame.

Soon all those feelings and happiness will fade
and the mundane will settle back in,
putting them in the same position as I.

No, I will not feel bad about my life,
because tonight it's just me,
my wine,
and Barbara.

Flee

I can't stop staring at the droplets of rain, as they slowly run down the back window of Timmy's shitty pick up truck.

Kim screams as a song comes on the radio. She turns it up. Tim naturally tries turning it off, but she slaps his hand and asks him if he wants to get some tonight. He hesitates, so she singes his hand with her cigarette and laughs. She looks back at me. I flash her a smile before taking a swig from the rest of my Jim Beam, concealed in the ever so sneaky brown paper bag it came in. 

The song has a decent beat. That, or the Beam is making me think so. 

Kim rolls her window down and reaches an arm out. Some excess rain hits me in the face, but I keep drinking. Tim shakes his head and rips the cigarette from her free hand. He takes a drag and eye fucks me in the rear view mirror. He motions for me to join her, but for some reason my legs are paralyzed.

"This is living" Kim screams as half her body exits the truck. She sits on the edge of the window, gripping the passenger side handle. "Faster!" she screams to Tim. 

He tells her to hold on, and speeds up. 

I feel like a mannequin in the back seat, so I drink a little more to loosen up. 

The truck is now passing by car after car. I should be scared, but I keep drinking.

Our turnoff is coming up. I wonder to myself if he will slow down, but don't say anything.

Kim tries standing, but stumbles a little. 

Tim laughs and yells "hold on bitch!"

He jerks the wheel and turns the pick up off the main road.

At first I think Kim is screaming in ecstasy, until I notice she's no longer in front of me. 

My eyes widen, but I remain paralyzed.

Tim slams on the brakes and unleashes a multitude of swears. 

He looks back at me and screams for me to get out of the truck. 

I shake my head no.

He reaches for my throat, but I fight him off. 

He hits the gas.

I look out my window for any sign of her, but it's too dark.

Headlights flash behind us. 

Another deafening song begins, but somehow I only hear her screams.

Donut

The trouble with love,
is it doesn't care how hard you fight,
how long you cry,
or how much you will it.

Like a tender muscle you just pulled,
love twists the knife until you bleed.

Once it sees red it draws back its malicious ways,
open you up,
and fill your soul.

It's similar to a custard filled donut.

You have to pierce the soft exterior,
to fill it with its thick, delicious ingredient.

Once it's implanted,
others can find that surprise,
 and savor it as much as you do.

Party Out Of Bound

This party is so lame. I can't believe Sheila begged me to be her wing woman. Sometimes I wonder what she'd do without me around. She'd probably find some other fat girl to follow her around and agree with everything she says. I bet she can't stand being alone. In fact, I know she can't. She's always going on and on about all the guys that talk to her, but she never asks about my life.Why do I put up with it? I suppose it's because I'm a masochist. Instead of standing here like a statue, maybe I should just dump this cup over her fucking head. What the hell is that guy looking at?


That girl looks really uncomfortable. I suppose it doesn't help that she's wearing a sweatshirt with a kitten on it. Maybe she's being ironic. I doubt it. Everyone else in this pretentious place is flaunting their idiotic-ness. God, I really hope Jim doesn't come here tonight. I can't handle seeing him with his new boyfriend. It's too soon. I guess it's my fault for falling for his shit. Everyone warned me. I suppose I should be wearing something ironic. It would fit the crime. What the fuck!


Oh my god! I can't believe I just spilled my drink on that guy. He looks pretty pissed. Maybe I should tell him what mama used to say about shit sticking to the bottom of a bum boot. I'm guessing he probably wouldn't understand it. Oh wow, look at Ricky. He's looking so damn good tonight. I wonder if anyone told him about me being a virgin. Oh well, can't sweat the small stuff. I guess I'd do it with him tonight if he was into it. I think I have more anxiety about what the guys thinking more than the so called pain in my peeper. I mean, girls all over the world are swiping their v-cards all the time. Some even younger than me. Thank god, I didn't...oh no. Here he comes.


Man I'm so shit faced. Is that girl with the pig tails staring at me? I think Julio said her name was Debby. I guess I don't have to say anything. Sounds like she's a talker. I don't know if I'm fucked up enough to sit here and listen to this bitch. I hate southern accents. Maybe she'll pick up that I'm not in to it and bounce. Okay, okay, smile and stop being a dick. She does have pretty decent legs. Oh shit! Is that Sheila over by the fat bitch? Man she's looking tasty. I gotta break away from this ho and hit her up. It's not a bad idea having a back up though. I'll get Debby's digits and figure it out later.


Is Ricky getting Daisy Dukes number? What a slut! Bigger and better things. I bet Rob's dick is bigger than his anyway. Jesus Christ, Jessica is bringing me down. Look at her, with her sad plastic cup of soda and her stained kitten sweatshirt. I really don't know why I throw pity to her. She's as useful as Atkins.  Still, maybe if I gave her a "She's All That" make over, she'll transform into someone fuckable. All I want is the Thelma to my Louise. Maybe without all the violence but damn did those two have fun. I'm better off hitting up Daisy Duke for some fun. Maybe then I could have Ricky before she does. She looks like she's used to having sloppy seconds any way. Man this party sucks.

Sunny Reflect

I look up to the sun drenched sky and wonder "what the fuck have I done with my life?"

Some of my friends can say they've bought a home, gotten married or had babies.

At times it feel like I'm not even present in my life. On days like today I step outside my body and float above the world I live in. There, I see what others might see.

Loneliness.

I used to be more than okay with it when I was a kid. I was left to my own inventions and over active imagination to fill the void.

I'd crave for those times I was left alone so I could explore my mind and create something special.

These days I feel outnumbered by these special things.

They tower over me and tighten their grasp on my soul until I lose consciousness.

When I wake I'm in a pool of my own emptiness.

Some blame depression and stress, but in a sense these negative feelings are healing.

They remind me I'm alive.

Unfortunately all I have to show for this life are mountains of unfinished work and an overly expressive dialogue.

Today I reflected.

On days gone past, the present in which I hate, and things to change my future.

All I've come to hope for is someone, or something, being inspired by my rants and ravings.

I truly believe that we're put here on this earth, to explore our own mind and body. In doing this we either go along with societies plan or create our own path to happiness. Once we pick our path, we realize we're meant to inspire and teach this knowledge to those unlucky in life.

Me; I am that unlucky bastard whose knowingly figured it all out.

Addicted To Hate

I feel the hostility and rage coursing through my body.


It's an infection that enables a diseased and sick mind.


If only I could fuel enough self control,

and cut all ties by ending its addiction.


Instead, I continue feeding it envy.

Hipster

“It ain't what they call you, it's what you answer to.”
        -W.C. Fields

I first experienced the term 'hipster" when I moved to the big city from Middle-America. I was a naive, clean cut, fresh faced, nineteen year old struggling with sexual identity and a worrisome religion nit picking my brain.

It took me all of three weeks to be initiated into the big city. It was the week before school started and the campus was a buzz.

I lived a few blocks from the campus so I walked to school to purchase some books and skipped out, due to the overcrowded frenzy I witnessed.

I wasn't used to being alone, but was excited of the prospect of a potential career following my dreams of writing (something I had done since 1st grade.)

I took in the lush scenery of the park that surrounded the campus and was so happy to be in a place where I could truly find myself.

Ahead of me two men (one Black, one Hispanic) and a Caucasian girl crossed the street. The Black guy was rapping to himself while the girl hung on the arm of the Hispanic kid. They weren't much older than me.

It all happened really fast, but my initiation consisted of a punch to the side of the face and a kick in the leg.All I remembered while it happened was the girl screaming for them to stop. It was a sort of drive-by assault that didn't draw blood, just a swollen face. I had not provoked and they did not engage an further. It was an incredible act that left me confused, devastated and broken.

This was my first impression of the city.

For weeks after, I was afraid to be alone and no longer wanted to find myself outside the comfort of small town USA. It was a good year before I truly opened up and started inviting people in. I had tried dating here and there with the assistance of some good friends I had met, but was emotionally closed up.

It wasn't until I met my first love, that everything changed.

For years I relived the night we met in my head, over and over again. Not because I will never love like that again, but because until that moment I had never met a group of people, or person, who exposed me to such an exuberant and poetic way of life.

Until meeting him, and them, I had never heard the term "hipster" before.

At the time it was a term unknown to most people and one that didn't hold such a negative connotation as it does now. In a way, media has destroyed its reputation and made into a trend more than a statement.

Back when I was a young, love struck, 21-year-old I was Dorothy living in the black and white Kansas. It wasn't until I met a core group of friends that I was introduced to OZ in full HD and color.

Being a "hipster" wasn't about the trend setting, the music, the attitude, it was about being yourself. I'd be lying if I didn't come across a few assholes back then who were more about the scene, but they were pretty easy to sniff out.

Back then, a Hipster was someone who appreciated the aesthetics of life.  The simple things that most people don't care, or think about today. Old was new, and free thinking and open minded living was the way of life. It wasn't about saying "fuck you" to anyone, but it was more about being comfortable with yourself and liking what you like. Truly living in the moment and appreciating the little things in life. Those moments you know you'll never get back.

For years I tried my hardest to be like this. In fact, for years I tried being my first boyfriend, but what I realized over the years was that it was all pointless. People come and go in your life that shape you into who you eventually become comfortable being. You can ride the wave of conformity and hide inside a closet or box, or you can feel free to be comfortable and dismiss labels and ideas of what you love is okay.

I've always felt like a weird kid. From the days when I would spin in circles for hours to experience the out of body dizziness, to walking through the park near my parents house alone and creating a new world in my head.

I had lost that sense of adventurousness and drive for danger. I was so used to being told "no" that a part of my fire died.

These are all things I felt encompassed a Hipster, in my day.

If you asked someone now, they'd say "nerdy glasses, attitude against main stream America, and vintage clothing."

I'm pleading for this way of thinking to end, because it's plaguing humanity.

A good friend recently said that it appears to be something that evolves over time and continues to be labeled. First were the beatniks, then the hippies, then the hipsters. Perhaps it's also part of the bohemian revolution.

I suppose within enough time the next craze will begin, but until then I reminisce on the days gone by.

An era that truly is over.

Live hard,
sit back and appreciate the little things.
Before you know it you may end up alone,
lost in your own memories,
plagued with regret,
sentenced with unhappiness.
-Me

Balderdash

The humidity was unbearable,
as I looked to a sky with no stars.

I could feel the coldness in my bones,
yet my skin was hot to the touch.

I watched the clouds dance,
 across the cresting moon.

You could feel the energy of the city.

It was pouring out,
everywhere you turned.

Unsuspecting,
I knew this was it.

The rapture.

I took it all in,
in stride.

Never involving the others,
and careful not to induce panic.

I truly believe that ignorance is bliss.

It's how we've all survived this long,
without coming undone.

I struggled many years to embrace this life.

It's a pity to see it completely unravel,
in the blink of an eye.

The old saying is "Live fast, die young."

Balderdash.

Take ownership of this life,
and figure out the lessons you're meant to learn.

Teach it to others,
who in return may see the greater picture.

I'm Not In Love

It was almost bar close.

I had met him and some of his co-workers at a local dive. The type of place that made your shoes stick to the ground, and was clouded with smoke. Back then you could smoke in bars, so I was generally used to it. 

I had never been there before, but did my best to play cool. He was three years older than me and none the wiser, but back then I believed he was.

I hadn't really dated since I moved up to the cities, due to the fact that I was still slowly coming out to some of my family and to myself.  I always knew I was gay growing up, but never wanted to believe it, in fear that God would strike me down where I stood and punish my family for it.

I had some grand idea that this so-called loving God would take the world away from me and my family by creating some sort of hardship or illness that would tear a hole in my soul. The effects  of twelve years in a private, Lutheran education. 

I walked to said bar, where he wanted to meet, so I could comfortably drink, and walk home after we were done.

I wasn't quite sure how things would turn out, but I had hoped for the best.

Back then, I was a fairly shy kid, who didn't like being pulled out of my comfort zone.

At the door of the bar, my ID was checked by a burly biker looking guy with a long grey beard, who sat on a stool. He waved me inside and I was punched in the face with smoke. It appeared to been cigarette night, because everyone in the bar was smoking. 

It took me a quick second, to focus my eyes and exhale the second hand smoke before I spotted him. 

Initially I thought we were meeting one on one, but it turned out he had invited some friends.

Our table was a large booth, made of splintering wood seats and a dirty table top. A plastic beer list with the words FAGGOT written in sharpie sat in the middle of the table.

The boy, introduced me to some of his friends he worked with. He explained that this was their local hang out. I considered making a "Cheers" reference, but quickly disposed of it. 

He got up from the booth and asked me what I wanted to drink. I told him I could buy it, but he insisted. I told him I'd be fine with beer.

He disappeared toward the bar.

I slid into the booth and looked at the beer list, while his friends talked to each other.

"I'm Afraid Of Americans" by David Bowie shouted out from the jukebox, which startled me.

His friends looked at me funny and laughed.

They offered me a cigarette, but I declined. 

The boy returned with a handful of shots and a beer bottle hanging out of his cut off jean jacket pocket. He insisted I take it, before it slipped.

He sorted the shots amongst us and moved in close toward me.

I really didn't want the shot, especially since the smell hit my throat before I could even pick up the glass, but I was completely out of my element, and I wanted them to like me.

The boy made a toast, knocked back the drink, and slammed the glass on the table.

The others followed.

I however, had a hard time opening my throat. It took me two attempts before the remaining liquid slid down.

I asked him what it was, trying not to make a sour face.

He laughed and threw his arm across the top of the booth, behind me. He whispered in my ear that it was his own concoction . 

I tried to make my wince into a smile, but couldn't get that terrible taste of the burning liquid off my tongue. 

I took a generous sip of the beer he bought me and sat back. 

The rest of the night I observed their brash humor. 

Occasionally they would ask me questions and I'd reply.

It wasn't until my third beer, that I'd realized I was drunk.

The boy had lit up a cigarette, puffed, and exhaled away from me. I took it from his fingers and generously inhaled. 

Everyone at the table was taken aback, but somehow I knew that it was the right thing to do.

When it came time to leave, I explained that I had walked.

He offered to give me a ride home, but I politely declined and offered to call us both a cab. 

The boy told me that he loved my innocence and that he had already intended on leaving this place in style.

He lead me to a bike rack and unlocked a vintage All  Pro bike. It was lime green with a white banana seat. 

He asked if I would pedal.

I agreed, so we hopped on, but I was way too drunk to get us moving. He laughed, trying to help us along, but it was evident that we weren't going anywhere.

He told me to switch.

I did, and began to worry I would fall off the back.

He told me to hold on.

We were off.

On the front of his bike was a transistor radio.

He flipped it on and fidgeted with the dial. 

I'm Not In Love by 10CC played.

He began to pedal more furiously.

I wrapped my arms around his waist and buried my face in his back as we cruised down a heavily populated street.

He told me to relax, and not be so embarrassed, but even the alcohol couldn't ease my insecurities in public.

We had finally arrived at my apartment.

He had offered to walk me to my door.

In the lobby we quietly waited for the elevator. 

Once it arrived, we entered.

I hit my floor.

Before the doors could fully close, I had him up against the wall.

I wasn't sure what came over me, but I couldn't resist him.

He tasted like menthol and the shot I had hated.

This time I couldn't get enough of the taste. 

 It was a ten second elevator ride, but to me it felt like thirty.

He ended up spending the night, but to this day I still recall that night as the night I let my guard down and began my transformation, into my true self. 

Walled In

I am stuck in the walls, cursed to move through this claustrophobic space.

My lungs have turned to powdery dry wall, and are splintered with wood.

I pray that someone will release me from within the walls of this desolate cabin.

Occasionally the rats come to visit me, but soon move on to bigger and better things.

Even the bugs from this rotting, infested place, have no interest in me.


I try to remember a life outside this place, but my mind is blank before now.


My only outlet to the outside is a small crack near the front of the house that sucks the air from my lonely catacomb.


The townies tried to warn us about coming here, but ultimately we got what we deserved.

Retribution, from the souls who once inhabited this place.

Now we too are one of them.

Dreaming In Slow Motion

It happened, as it always did.

My arms and legs were bound.

My body was tense, as if my muscles had died.


I was floating in a non-existing space,

moving slowly toward the eye of a needle.


The only thing left to dwell on were my thoughts.


I knew the inevitability of this situation,

and it scared the hell out of me.


Suddenly, I couldn't breathe.


I was covered in sweat,

as the needle drew closer.


I had had this dream before.

Each time, was the same result.

And each time, I pondered whether anything would change.


How do you fight something that smothers you, and pulls you toward your destiny?


It wasn't until I was Iris, to pin point, that my body would tremble awake.


Like in my dream, I was covered in cold sweat.


Water, eventually would calm my nerves,

but I would spend countless years trying to decipher this night terror.


Some theories of mine is that my mind  is recalling the act of child birth.

I am forced to relive the crowning process, over and over.


Another theory is a glimpse in to a past purgatory.


Whatever the answer is, I try and sleep off my nightmare,

hoping to rid myself of it altogether.

The Angels

Inside my belly lies a hidden treasure,
not seen by human eyes.

Only the angels can find it.

The angels and their weeping grins.

They giggle to themselves,
plotting to take what's mine,
and say it was the devil that provoked them.

I do not surmise,
that they will succeed.

I only cringe in anticipation,
hoping the inevitable won't arrive.

I shame these despicable creatures,
hiding behind false pretenses,
and living out their eternity,
double agents.

This is why I am on the run,
with a closed heart,
open mind,
and black soul.

To survive.

Words

It's not the words that scare me,
it's the criticism that follows.

Art is meant to be an expression of ones true self,
not a meaningless, drab, form of self congratulation and wealth.

Ever since I was young, I was left to my own devices,
exploring the beauties and sensory moments of life.

To make true art,
one has to open themselves up to pure insanity.

Sometimes, the depths of creativity,
take you to places you'd rather not explore.

Its learning to control ones madness,
that takes years of concentrated act.

I can't say I've gotten a knack for this talent,
but I have found something, and someone, worth living for.

I might never get the experience to bare my soul to the world,
but that doesn't mean I won't stop expressing myself.

Self expression, is free therapy.
Without it, I would implode,
and become as useless as a blustering winters day.

Dirty Floors

Brew, slung across a crowd from a plastic cup,

as Echo & The Bunnymen sway and crone on stage.

High hair, and black silhouettes.

Stilettos and anxious hollers.

Torn fishnets and sticky floors.

Blinding lights,

smoke machines,

stolen smoke breaks,

and a thundering bass.

I watch as an older gentlemen in the front row holds up his palm to the guitarists, during his solo.

These are the memories I will remember,

not the petty-mundane events that transpired moments before.

Music is the life blood,

and this is true evidence of it.

The way it entrances a soul,

and makes one forget all the unimportant events that transpire.

Doleful

Her eyes began to crystallize, as the moss grew tall and moist around her uncontrollably body.

The bones, brittle, yet vital, became an instrument of sound, as the wind passed through the trees.

The owls hooted as the moon began to rise, and the sun fell dead in its tracks. "Why me" the brain flickered as one last thought danced across the dying pink matter.

This one would no longer grow older, yet the nails and hair will continue to grow. The flesh will pucker and dry up.

Insects writhe and bathe in all its dead glory.

The purple nightgown, now torn and frayed, once an accomplishment of its own, no longer possess any threat.

Animals have come out for their nightly hunt.  In doing so, they will help dispose of the remains, that infect the earth.

A beautiful object, now dirty, doleful, and diseased. Every piece, carefully dissected by nature, and returned to its original form.

A Little Piece Of...

Sometimes the things we strive for,

are not the things meant to be obtained.


We often limit ourselves to just one path,

but the truth of the matter,

is one should follow the souls path.


We've all heard the saying "you only live once"

but what if that reality is, you only live one life once?


I truly believe there's something greater out there.


Beyond the unknown, there's a rejuvenation,

or a rebirth.


Without death, there would be no motivation

without motivation, there would be no strive,

without strive, we are cursed to live the same existence over and over.


The clatter of the worlds words and ideals will mutter ones dreams.


I truly believe we are meant for greatness.


Even if you're the only one to believe it.

Summer In The City

I'm beginning to miss the grime of it all.

The glistening pavements, and excess noise pollution.

The smell of garbage baking in the sweltering heat,

while accordions play in the park.

People rowing,

while others lie passed out on a picnic blanket,

surrounded by shade and empty bottles of wine.

The midnight movie marquee featuring the double feature of John Waters "Female Troubles"

and Tobe Hoopers "Texas Chainsaw Massacre."

The instant need to out dress one another,

and the deafening blow from a department stores top 40 single smothering its shoppers.

A hot, cramped record store,

with crates of vinyl records littered through out.

The over priced plastic cups of red wine at Cabaret

and the over joyed families at Newsies.

These are amongst the finest memories I will keep with me,

but none are as priceless as the memory

of our Golden Girls moment.

Strawberry cheesecake and fireworks on our TV,

after a long afternoon braving the city.

New York, we love you.

Bubbled Up

My sights and sounds

of nights gone stale

and cheery dispositions

can be summed up in a batch of collective thoughts.


I love to be free

yet this freedom often overtakes my ambitions

creating a dream to pause

and lose its priority.


When they bubble up from that dark place

they are often expressed in a manor

that is self gratifying

but too little, too late.


Maybe one day I will be rewarded for my unconscious efforts.


Until then I keep that creativity bottled up

waiting for the right time to shake it up

and un-pop the cork.

I Will Wait

She closes her lips and leans in for that inevitable smooch,

but I panic and kiss her on the cheek.

She no doubt has counted this as the third strike for me, 

but she makes me incredible nervous.

Her eyes flutter open,

but she doesn't flee.

She gives me a confused look of content, and tells me good night,

but I refuse to admit defeat.

This moment is supposed to be what I always imagined,

Mariah Carey on the roller coaster from her "Fantasy" video.

Instead, we part ways feeling more like a sand bag sinking into the St. Croix river.

No, I will not let it end like this.

I ball my fists and try calling out to her.

She is already in her car.

My throat becomes tense as I jog toward her.

Her tail lights shimmer across my face,

but she never looks back.

I contemplate a text,

but I hate the insincerity of it all.

A phone call perhaps?

No, it too is inappropriate for the situation.

I stand still in the middle of the street and shout "I love you,"

but it's too little, too late.

The car is too far away.

Another missed opportunity.

Two ships unknowingly passing one another on a long journey across the Pacific. 

Good bye my love.

I will wait for you forever.

That Hot Summer Night

That summer of 1979 was a scorcher.

I'll always remember it because we were both dead broke and hardly spent no time together.

James worked third shift and was barely home weekends since he wanted to catch up with old friends down the block.

He'd never let me run the air conditioner unless he was home and he deemed it truly too hot for comfort.

Just imagine 85 degrees in our one bedroom hot house with no escape from the humidity inside or out.

It always seemed worse inside than out because I was always busy running the washer and dryer, cooking, cleaning or ironing his pant suits and dress shirts.

I never truly got a minute to relax myself, since he had me running around town with a list of things to do while he was away.

His philosophy was to keep a woman busy so she wouldn't stray.

I didn't seem to mind too much.

I had a roof over my head, no kids to take care of and I stayed out of trouble. An accomplishment in my families eyes since most of them ran themselves into the ground in debt, infidelity or alcoholism.

I managed to sneak an hour into my day when the husband was away at work to read or write.

I hid all evidence of my idleness from him of course.

I don't particularly recall the specific date or month of this story. Maybe July, due to the insistent heat, but it was sweltering.

I had my hair pinned up and a rag to cover it from the sweat beading down from my hairline.

James was out with some friends.

I was left alone to clean up dinner and finish pressing his shirts for the upcoming week.

The air conditioning was banned due to the climbing electric bill.

He didn't like the idea of me working so he had been working over time to make up for our extra expenses.

I learned to trick my body by taking slow breaths through my mouth to stop the heat from taking over but every once in a while I had to escape to the kitchen and stand in front of the open freezer door to cool off.

I cracked an ice cube from the tray and ran it over the back of my neck and across my chest for more relief.

It seemed to melt instantly in my hand before I could enjoy it.

A bang from the front door slamming shut startled me.

There, was James, slipping a 45 on the record player.

Aretha Franklin starts to belt out "Ain't No Way" from the speakers.

He motions for me to come to him.

I tell him I have too much work to do, but he insists.

Most of my work was almost done, but I could never tell him that I hated seeing him after his trips to the bar.

He strips his shirt off and sways to the music in his work pants and an under shirt.

He throws a few "c'mon baby"s at me so I amuse him and take his outstretched hand.

He twirls me and pulls me close.

"It's too hot" I tell him, but he just pulls me closer and pushes my head on his shoulder.

He begins to profess his undying love for me and how he misses me, but I know where this is all headed.

I tell him it's too hot, but he won't let go.

When he kisses me I taste vodka and cigarettes.

"Please" I insist.

He lets go and steps back.

I know what's coming so I brace myself.

He slaps me across the face and belligerently tells me off.

I try focusing in on the song and tell him "I'm sorry," hoping he will let up.

He grabs my shoulders and shakes me a second before pushing me to the floor.

I fall into the record player causing the music to skip back to the beginning.

He stumbles toward the bedroom.

I collect myself and reach for the needle when I really hear Aretha.

I listen to the rest of the song and stop the player.

James yells for me to come to bed.

At that moment I contemplate. I can continue his abuse or walk out that front door and disappear forever.

I look toward our long dark hallway with light pouring out from the bedroom and then at the bedroom.

I hold that record in my hand, clinching it tightly.

Lost Girl

Chiquitita,
                     I love you, but to be frank...you've lost it.

We've been dear friends for years but throughout those years I've sat by and watched you make endless mistakes and abrasive decisions.

This letter is not intended to be cruel or judge, but instead to point out these negative qualities and help you find your way back.

I've noticed an extreme switch in your personality from year to year. It started early on by over-extended gestures and bold invitations toward your past, uninterested, suitors. I always saw the best in you and loved your good intentions, but as the years age us, they are getting harder and harder to validate.

We are both passionate spirits in love with love and soul crushing experiences, but what I've learned over the past couple years is to harness my energy and put it into something artistic or creative.

You've lost that spark and fallen into a societal pit fall that diverts your energy to less important matters.

One of the reasons our friendship has been so strong is that we feed off each other and have always yearned to relate to some of histories greatest poets and artists.

Our heart broken pasts have always fed fuel to the flames of our unflushed friendship, but ever since I've found the love of my life and learned to harness my heart ache, our flame has been petering out.

I suppose this is one of those inevitable losses we mourn as our lives shape shift, but I refuse to let our memories fade out like this.

Please reel in your emotions and get in touch with the person you used to be.

Over these years I've watched your previous self shrivel up and die only to be reborn into a more powerful, self confident, character you've created from some of your favorite qualities.

In a span of two years you had reached your immediate goals and found someone to really love you.

It only took a few months after this to tear down everything you one stood for and cast you back out into a sea of disapproval, shame, and confusion.

Sexuality and religion seemed to be your best defense against new found heart ache and suddenly I lost you altogether.

I hardly recognized you anymore.

You smile, but I see the pain in your eyes.

I believe you'll eventually find what you're looking for.  Until then, my heart goes out to you.

My hope is that one day you'll stand in front of a mirror, shed that exo-skeleton of the character you've created and ask yourself:

Is she who you want to be or are you just pretending?

I'll Be Watching You

Vicki awoke to her normal routine:

-Coffee

-The Nerdist's Blog

-Facebook

-Twitter

-Tumblr

-Breakfast (Greek yogurt, with whatever fruit was left in her fridge)

-Bathroom/Shower

-Dancing in the mirror/Blow drying hair (to the local hipster radio station)

-Strategic selection of used, often torn, but fashionably chic business/casual attire.

-Selfie

-Instagram

-Teeth brushed (organic toothpaste)

-Mouth rinsed (alcohol free/organic mouth mash)

She would leave her apartment, reusable coffee mug in tow, but with green tea instead of coffee, to keep up with appearances. 

Ear buds in place, she would fidget with her iPod on the way to the bus stop.

In the bus hub, her music is drowned out by a passing car playing "Every Breath You Take" by The Police at full volume.

She rolls her eyes and turns up the volume to this weeks unknown, unsigned, but incredibly popular indie band (advertised in The City Pages.)

The bus arrives.

It is a twenty minute stop and go, until finally she arrives at her destination.

She enters the bustling corporate building located in downtown.

She crams into a full elevator and hears "Every Breath you Take" playing from someones ear buds, but can't make out who.

She sips the rest of the green tea and exits at the top floor.

Disappearing into her cubicle, she reluctantly logs into her computer and notices her voice mail light is on. 

She ignores it and logs into the Star Tribunes website.

There is a large article advertising The Police reunion coming in to town.

She clicks on it.

A large picture of Sting takes over her monitor.

Embarrassed she closes the link and looks around, to make sure she wasn't spotted.

She dials into her voice mail.

The first message is a man angrily leaving a message for a woman named Liz.

Erased.

The second sounds like a pocket dial.

It is mostly wind and crinkling noises.

Vicki thinks she hears someone whisper I love you near the end.

Erased.

She decides to get more hot water for her tea from the break room, so she locks her computer.

She reluctantly smiles and tells her passing co-workers Good morning, but secretly could care less.

When she returns to her desk she notices her monitor is unlocked.

She looks around the cube and asks a co-worker if anyone was at her desk but they haven't seen anyone.

She decides that she's losing her mind and must have left it unlocked.

Work, work, work.

Lunch.

Shoe Dazzle.com

Weather Channel.com's ten day forecast.

An e-mail to a friend about her weekend.

No reply.

Facebook.

Work.

Break.

Bathroom.

Work.

Four fifty five P.M.

She closes down her computer and switches on the voice mail button to her phone.

Bathroom.

She makes an herbal tea found in the break room for the ride home.

Another crammed elevator ride.

A mad dash to the bus.

She barely makes it on.

She has to stand for a couple stops, but eventually is offered a seat by a large lumber jack looking guy.

She smiles and imagines him naked for a second.

She slides into the window seat and sips her tea.

She rests her head against the window and closes her eyes.

A teenager near the back of the bus listens to rap on his phone, loud enough for everyone to hear.

He spits a few rhymes before the bus driver tells him to silence his music.

The teen tells him to Fuck off and yanks the bus call.

The driver stops at the next stop.

The teen kicks the back doors open and exits.

Vicki sips more tea and puts her ear buds in.

She hits play.

Every Breath You Take plays.

She opens her eyes and looks around the bus.

Everyone stares straight forward in a daze. 

A homeless woman glares at her while talking to herself.

Vicki selects shuffle and settles on the indie pop song most likely found a Twilight soundtrack.

She finishes her tea and closes her eyes.

She awakes in bed.

The room is dark.

She reaches for her bed side light, but can't move her arm.

She feels tension around both wrists.

She thrashes both arms, but finally realizes that they are bound to a metal head board.

She begins to panic, not about the arms, but at the fact that she does not own a head board. 

She tries kicking her legs, but they too are bound.

She lets out a cry for HELP but her mouth is taped shut.

A figure enters the room, but it is too dark to see.

It approaches a record player next to her and drops the needle on Every Breath You Take by The Police.

Vicki pulls at her restraints as the figure sits beside her.

A pair of dry, cracked, and cold hands run themselves across the nape of her neck.

Her eyes widen.

She screams and is back handed for it.

She scream again, but it leads to the same result.

Like a lab rat, she is tested being struck for every scream, cry, or whimper.

Finally she stops and tries to calm herself.

The figure starts the record again.

He continues to run his hands across her neck and parts of her body that are exposed.

The top of her chest.

Her arms.

Her bare feet.

The figure tries to tickle the bottom of her feet, but the jagged finger nails irritate more than stimulate

He moves on top of her and rips the tape from her lips.

Before she screams, the hands tightly cover her mouth nearly suffocating her.

The figure whispers the lyrics of the song in to her ear on cue with Sting.

Vicki nears the end of her oxygen.

The last thing she hears is the song fade out I'll be watching you.

Alone

I sit in that old rocking chair and throw an over sized cardigan around my shoulders.

I roll a joint and seal it with a kiss. 

You finish dressing in your uniform before kissing me on the forehead and rushing out the back door.

I don't get a word in.

I inhale the numbness and exhale all the bull shit.

Somewhere I hear "Lets' Dance" playing from my phone.

Eventually it stops and alerts me there is a voice mail.

I push play on the stereo and listen to those old sad Christmas songs playing on the seasonal radio station.

Darlene Love shouts out words I already know, so I shut her the fuck up and look for my phone.

I notice my missed call is from him.

I erase the message without listening to it and drop the phone in the toilet.

I flush it to make sure it's out of sight.

I draw the window shades hoping it's at least a pristine image of Christmas, but it's not.

More of the drippy brown shit we've been suffering from since November.

I collapse on the couch.

A million questions cross my mind, but before they can cloud my judgement, I take a larger hit making sure they stay lost.

I exhale those thoughts stare blankly at the popcorn ceiling.

I smile inside.

"You're right bitch. No one should be alone."

Apocalyptic

A haunting melody plagues my dreams.

When I close my eyes at night I see what will ultimately erase the entire human race.

I open them to avoid its impending nature and enjoy the distractions of a hum drum life.

It's uncanny seeing such beautiful creatures dancing through life,while under the surface there lurks great fear.

I know what I must do.

Until then I can't help but wonder what my life would be like should it play out the way God intended.

God, Buddha, Allah.

They're no match for the crusader.

The one who will cause so much pain, but also take all the hurt away.

So I wait.

Wait for the Apocalypse.

Seeking shelter in my ignorance.

Pretending I matter.

Flower Child

I put that old French record on.

Back then I was just a girl.

Innocent and curious about sexuality.

Everything I learned about sex came from Brigitte Bardot and Nancy Sinatra.

Back then I was empowered by my fellow female road warriors.

The Shangri-Las kept me grounded in my relationships, but also helped me move on to bigger and better things.

My expectations rose the day my innocence was stolen in the back of a beat up van near a bonfire my girlfriends had thrown.

Virginity is a funny thing.

Most girls plan, worry and obsess over it, until it's gone.

I always felt indifferent.

It was just like most of the senior girls in the bathroom at school had described it.

The silver lining was that all of the power now belonged to me.

I was no longer the girl doing her make up like Nancy and Brigitte.

I had evolved into a sexual being with a curious agenda.

And the men who preyed on my fellow sisters would pay the price.

Old Familiar

We're both a little drunk.

I take hold of the sleeve of his jean jacket and bury my face in it.

He removes a Blondie pin from the lapel of his jacket and pins it on to my members only jacket. 

We steer down a cobblestone street, with no destination in mine. 

The moon is loud tonight.

He exhales a deep breath of smoke from a clove cigarette.

I dance in its scent as he throws an arm around my shoulder.

"You're so beautiful" he says to me.

I feel a tenseness in my chest.

My heart starts to pound as the wind blows across his freshly cut Ramones hair.

"I can't believe you're mine" he says again, taking hold of my hand.

I close my eyes and swim in his compliments.

He twirls me and pulls me toward him.

I remove the clove dangling from his lips.

When we kiss I feel my knees give out.

He catches me and pulls me closer.

Above us fireworks pop and sizzle. 

Voices scream and cheer around us, but neither of us pay them attention. 

The world moves at the speed of light around us, but together we are trapped in slow motion.

This must be what love feels like. 

Colorless Canvas

I am a canvas.

Always taking on other colorful personalities, but never truly finding one of my own.

The relationships I make.

The friends that fade away.

They are all due to the ever revolving changes of my painting.

When I was young I found comfort with the girls, a soft pink.

As I grew up I knew I had to bond with the boys, so I took on a bashful blue.

My pre-teens, a rageful red of self discovery that tried to blend the pink and blue.

A strong purple bond with my parents started to fade.

I conformed to what those around me were doing.

I didn't want to stand out but fit in.

The teens were especially hard.

This was the time my peers took refuge in relationships, a velvety red.

I tried to blend in by following my heart.

Unfortunately my loins did not follow suit.

Early twenties seem to be a cause and effect of throwing every color on to the canvas creating a blur of dark ugly colors.

To start fresh, I removed all of the current colors and wiped the slate clean.

The white began to bloom into a lush of neutral colors.

A midnight blue was introduced but soon dissipated.

Neon colors splashed and soared.

No matter how colorful the painting, parts of white always shined through.

Soon the dark colors resurfaced and the picture became another blurry mess of reds, blues and black.

Finally I found that yellowy orange that helped me become the person I am today.

Now I live my life according to my own colors.

Careful not to mix too many pallets to create the mess I used to be.

Hot Summer Night

The wound up toy soldiers of yesterdays
have proven to be thinking of only the future.

They kick and sputter
as Dad stone washes the patio and yells at me to move.

I'm in my overalls and play barefooted.

He threatens to spray me with the hose,
so I move my army to the grass.

I let the plush grass settle between my toes before a single blade cuts my heel.

I remove it and watch as a single drop of blood tears from my skin
and lands in the palm of my hand.

My eyes start to roll to and fro
and my lungs exhaust all of my oxygen.

When I wake,
I find myself in my bed.

Mother has turned on the spinning kaleidoscope of stars I use as a night light.

I am blanketed and tucked tightly under the sheets.

Next to me lies Teddy.

I hear screaming from the other side of a closed door.

The light peaking around the door frame calls to me but I am pinned in so tightly, I couldn't move if I wanted to.

I hear a loud BANG.

A sound not like the one that comes from the Pillsbury dinner rolls when they are opened from their canister.

The light around the door frame flickers and becomes obstructed.

I close my eyes and fold my hands in to prayer position.

I hear my father crying, but I keep my eyes closed.

For a moment I feel something warm and steel press against my forehead, but I keep my eyes tightly shut.

The steel object is replaced by a kiss from father.

He exits my room, sniveling.

Once my door is shut I peak under my eyelids.

The room is empty.

I stay up all night waiting for him to come back.

Afraid to leave my room in case he does.

But he never returns.

That Summer

Most summers were scorchers , but this one proved to be especially humid.

We took refuge in your parents Ford explorer and hit the road with nothing but a bottle of scotch I lifted from my uncles liquor cabinet and two Tangy taffy's. 

Blue Raspberry for you.

Grape for me.

You would devour yours, but I would savor the tangy flavor while cruising to one of your classic rock mixes. 

The open road was the only place either one of us felt free.

We'd roll the windows down as the sun began to set in the distance.

You'd laugh at me, while I hung half my body out the window.

I'd close my eyes and scream at the top of my lungs, while you honked the horn and stuck your middle finger out the window.

We'd stop at Le Duc's, the towns best kept secret for frozen yogurt.

You, the flavor of the day in a cone.

Me, vanilla in a dish.

You'd give me a hard time for always getting the most boring flavor.

I'd scoop some on to my finger and wag it at you.

We'd both take turns eating it.

You'd take a large bite from your cone and rub it all over my face.

An ice cream fight would commence, while the townies flashed us dirty looks and pity.

 On the way home, you'd switch to your nostalgic mix as the sun fully set.

We'd sit in silence staring up at the twinkled sky.

You'd pull over to the side of the road and cry.

I'd focus on the night sky and ignore you.

You'd take me home and I'd get out of the car without saying a word.

You'd flash the brights.

I'd turn and dance in front of the headlights.

You'd turn up that old Aerosmith song and I'd do a little dance for you.

You'd watch, forming a smile.

My aunt would stumble out of the house, hollering at me, but I'd keep dancing.

She'd grab me by the arm, but I'd fight her off and scream in her face.

You'd start to get out of the car but I'd jump back inside before you could.

The tires would spin out on the gravely driveway as we drove off.

I'd down the rest of the scotch and throw the bottle out the window toward my aunt.

Before I see if it hits her, you'd let out a ye-ha.

You'd look at me and run a finger across my cheek, but I'd move away and try hopping out of the car before you could stop.

The cornfields were my sanctuary.

There, I could lose anyone.

You called my name, but I would lie still so you couldn't find me.

I stayed there until I heard you drive off.

I wandered, listening to the night bugs and wind.

A shooting star glistens across the sky, but I don't believe in wishes.

I finally reach an old birch tree in the middle of an open field. 

I climb to the top and finally make that wish.

The night air has cooled.

I am home.

Taxi Cab To Hell

I am leaning against a stop sign in the freezing cold, trying to hail a taxi. 

At least four taxi's have passed me as I drunkenly fumble with the wrong end of a cigarette. 

Slush from the cars, destroy my worn leather boots.

Pieces of tobacco litter my mouth.

The cigarette falls into the street.

I swear and crawl into the street to retrieve it.

An approaching cab, lays on a the horn and floods the scene with its high beams.

I pocket the cigarette as he screams out his window in jibberish.

I ask him if he's vacant and he agrees to take me in.

I slide into the backseat and tell him my address.

The overpowering incense and smell of Funyons makes me gag.

The loud screeching and clanging of middle eastern instruments on the cabbies radio grabs my attention.

On the seat next to me a purple capsule rolls back and forth.

I take it between my fingers and examine it.

My phone begins to vibrate.

The screen reads DEBBIE.

I decline the bitches request and crack the hard exterior of the capsule.

I let its inside dissolve on the tip of my tongue and close my eyes.

There is a hint of watermelon and blood, but I don't care.

The Pakistani Cabbie barks at me about something but all I can hear is his music.

It seems to get louder every time his mouth opens.

The barrage of instruments starts to fade out as horns and a disco beat picks up.

I suddenly feel as if I've been transported into the finale of the movie Xanadu.

The cab stops and is overtaken by 80's chimes.

The song "CherChez Le Femme/Se Si Bon" by Buzzard's Original Savannah Band begins to play.

I begin to sweat profusely but laugh uncontrollably. 

The driver turns toward me.

It's Olivia Newton-John but she does not have a face, just an upside smile.

The backseat doors open by themselves and a crowd of people pile into the seats next to me.

I watch Olivia begin to fade away as the front of the car moves further and further away.

The cab has transformed into a stretch limo, but keeps its tacky interior of torn black leather seats and reek of bad incense.

My new occupants are dressed in their best Studio 54 clothes and being to disco on a multi color dance floor in the middle of the cab.

They beckon me to join them but my legs have stopped working.

I pick one leg up and let it fall to the floor.

It starts to melt.

I do the same with the other, but it produces the same result.

Suddenly I am just an upper torso.

A cocktail waitress approaches with two mechanical legs and screws them into my body.

I wince at the temperature of the steel, but otherwise feel no pain.

She tells me to stand.

When I do my body floats toward the dance floor, but glides right over it.

Everyone below waves and cheers.

Attached to my back are two giant Victoria Secret style wings that flap and carry me around the club.

I have no control over them, but the feeling of weightlessness invigorates me.

A naked girl with extremely long hair rides into the club on a horse splashing everyone with glitter.

She too has no legs, but fins.

She smiles at me and blows me a kiss.

I watch the floating kiss coming at me like a long exhale from a cigarette.

It hits me hard on the cheek, causing my wings to explode.

I fall to the ground and watch as the entire nightclub is filled with white feathers.

The crowd goes crazy, as they dance in the snow-like scene.  

A video of Debbie is playing on the ceiling of the club. 

She smiles and winks at me.

I wave and she waves back.

When I reach out, her eyes widen in horror.

The video glitches and fades.

I scream out to her, but couples surround me on the dance floor closing off my view of her. 

A woman's clunky heel steps on my stomach slicing into my body.

She turns to me and winces, trying to shake me off, but eventually removes the show and slaps me in the face.

I hold on to the heel and try pulling it out, but it is stuck.

The club begins to empty as the song nears its end, but I can't stand. 

My mechanical legs are gone.

Water fills in through the cracks in the floor.

I begin to drown but can move my body again.

I tug at the high heel in my stomach.

I pull it out.

The large body of water begins to drain inside me.

Memories flash before my eyes, blinding me.

I can't breathe.

I try to open my eyes, but they are being raped with bad thoughts.

When I finally open them I realize I am face down on the edge of my bed.

Home.

I roll over and touch my legs, then my stomach.

Everything is in tact.

My room looks like it has been ransacked.

I remember the purple capsule and let out a sigh.

I sit up, but the pressure in my head is too much, so I lie back.

When I do, a white feather flitters off my mattress and dances above my head.

My radio alarm switches on. 

"CherChez La Femme/Se Si Bon" plays.

As It Falls

That old familiar voice entrances the room.

I flip open that old beat up cigarette case and remove one of its sleek brown cigarillos and light the tip.

I lean back in that rocking chair you always hated and kick my shoes off with my feet.

When I close my eyes I feel your spirit here with me.

You'd tell me to get off my lazy ass and put that cigar out so we could dance.

I'd pull you on to my lap and brush my fingers across the exposed part of your shoulders and breath in your intoxication.

Tilting your  head back, you'd kiss my chin and pull me to my feet.

We'd sway to the beat as the rain pelts against the windows.

The lights would dim.

We'd light some candles and wedge them into some empty bottles of wine.

You'd take a drag from my cigarillo and stamp it out on the coffee table.\

When we spin I notice in the mirror on the wall, that I am swaying alone to this sad track.

I don't cry.

My tears have dried up.

Instead I take a seat back in that chair you hate so much and re-light my cigar.

Finally, a smile.

I miss you my dear.

It gets harder every day.

A Place In Hell

The ash falls to the sky,
as we stare up at the falling stars,
and wonder where life has gone.

The future's dim,
but we manage to entangle our hearts,
and smile while the earth falls.

This wonderful creation,
has drove some apart,
but mostly those who anticipate kindness.

So we march on,
smiling and grasping each others hands.

Living,
loving,
learning.

The mundane,
the hopeless,
the ever increasing hope.

Observing the ones that fall to their knees,
begging and pleading with life.

The most beauty we can experience is the hurt inside ourselves.

To rise up from it.

Phoenixes,
cursed to live out the same infinity.

Sometimes with optimism,
but mostly to learn from our previous mishaps,
and rise once again with no memories of these mistakes.

I'm Falling Free

I stand here on this ledge, staring down at the moving cars below. 

I don't move, but stand completely still, outstretching my arms above my head as the wind blows.

My body sways back and forth, but I continue to hold complete control and balance, as my hair blows slightly in the wind.

I can't get this Scissor Sisters song out of my head.

Behind my eyelids I see my lovers face smiling at me.

Suddenly this memory turns sour and he is old and sick.

My living parents fade away and this fantasy shows me left alone to rot as the world speeds up.

No heirs or living decedents.

Death takes over my major bodily functions, but refuses to claim me as a victim.

I become a corpsely shell locked in a facility where people poke and prod at me, to make sure I am still breathing.

My days are confined to a rocking chair I can't move.

The lone survivor, lying in soiled sheets, trying to remember better days, but those too have left me.

I open my eyes to the present and squint from the blazing sun overhead.

Behind me I hear a cry of voices shouting for me to step back.

I ignore their cries and smile.

All of the anxiety.

The societal pressures.

The let downs.

The grieving.

The loss of loved ones.

In the back of my mind I can already see the headlines.

"Suicidal...depressed...bipolar."

None are true, but there's no good way to explain to someone when you're complete.

I am taking control of my life and have come to the conclusion that I have everything I have ever wanted.

A beautiful and healthy family, partner, dog. 

A job, mortgage, and friends.

I have seen the world. 

Been to many great concerts, plays, and met incredible talent through and through.

I have written my unpublished opus.

Laughed, cried, dissapointed some, been pleasantly surprised, danced, sung, instructed, learned, exceeded expectations and failed.

There is nothing left that I wish to experience.

Feelings of satisfactions, rather than emptiness.

I am not depressed or unhappy, but fulfilled.

So I lift my head to the sky and lean into my destiny.

A million memories flash before my eyes.

It is mere seconds before the impact, but I feel tears of joy escape from my eyes before the darkness takes hold.

Now the real journey begins.

Wall Flower

I stand against the sidelines of bodies pumping to a bad Christina Aguilera top 40 hit. The song transitions to a mid-temp rap song that the kids all cheer and scream to.

Suddenly the girls grind against their dates as the guys high five one another and grab hold of their waists.

I lock eyes with another teacher and go in for the kill.

We do our best to separate some of the inappropriate dancing, but like bees to pollen they fling themselves against one another.

I decide to move to an area of the gymnasium that is inhabited by the band and choir kids. While they remain their own kind of crazy, they are easier to handle and more respectful to their peers.

I let out a sigh of relief and frustration as I look to my left and right. 

Sad, sullen girls sway alone to the music.  One of them has their arms crossed and nervously holds on to her own hips while biting her bottom lip.

A freshman in an over sized suit coat shuffles his feet and approaches her for a dance but she declines and runs off crying.

I try not to roll my eyes but I start to feel them fall in the back of my head.

I close them and see Hank.

I grip my wedding ring and turn it to the inside of my palm.

I close my fist and clench it until he is gone.

In front of me stands Roman Vanderwood in a fitted suit.

I notice his pink socks peeking out from the bottom of his pant legs.

He runs a hand through his slicked jet black hair and smiles.

"I'm sorry?" I tell him, but the faux rap song is too loud for me to hear.

He motions for the dance floor but I hold my hands up and shake my head "no."

"C'mon" I see him mouth, but I tell him that it's much too inappropriate.

He leans in and shouts over the music "but I requested the next song for my favorite teacher."

I barely hear him and become intoxicated by the smell of his aftershave. 

It's the same as Hanks.

One of the last memories I have of him.

Something I keep hidden in the back of he medicine cabinet and remove when I need a pick me up.

Roman takes my left hand and turns my wedding ring back to its original position as Etta James "These Foolish Things (Remind Me Of You" plays.

Hank and I's first dance at our wedding.

All of the air in my lungs escapes as he pulls me to the dance floor.

The sea of high school kids parts as we make our way to the middle.

Most of them look perplexed and angry, more at the music than a teacher/student having a dance.

Roman spins me pulls me into him.

My eyes begin to well up and I pull away.

"I can't" I choke out, but he wipes my eyes with a quick flick.

I spot some of the faculty whispering to one another on the sidelines.

"I'm sorry Roman" I say pulling away from him.

"The devils in our demise Rebecca" Roman jabbers.

Another tear forces itself out.

"Excuse me?" I blubber.

"I only have this one night" Roman belts out.

Other kids fill in around us, finally accepting the nostalgic song.

I suddenly find myself mirroring the girl with her arms crossed that scurried away earlier.

Roman takes me by the hand and whispers in my ear "Ever loving, ever grateful, never doubtful."

Something only Hank said to me on our wedding day.

I find him hard to resist, but suddenly we are dancing.

I throw my arms around his neck and take in his essence before the song ends.

The song ends and Roman leans in for a kiss.

I interrupt him with a slap and flee the dance floor.

I rush to the faculty lounge and raid the principals secret stash.

Outside it starts to snow.

Inside my heart, dissipates.