It was never the best of times, and it was never the worst of times.
It was - is - simply, the times.
Certainly not the most memorable at any rate.

But oh, the wet quicksand mud beneath our feet
steals our shoes from us
if we are in too deep,
as we always are.
Many times I have to dust off
my fish netted spaghetti legs.

And still, we dance like hooligans
in the middle of the soggy road.
And we beg for the rain
to keep pounding on.
And we will never stop.

It was a big gulp of breath
a gasp for air
and one long, infinite conversation
encompassing all of the
hard questions
leaving no corner unturned
walking through the spectrum
and never sparing a fleeting detail.
It stuttered to a stop
halfway through the lecture.
And now I may never know
what could have been covered.

A hummingbird’s fragile heart can beat up to 1260 beats per minute.
That’s a whopping 21 beats per second,
Which is rather fitting,
Because my pumping ***** manically pounds against my chest at a constant rate.
It only comprehends one anxious speed: fast.
What is also fitting,
Is that hummingbirds are capable of flying in all different sporadic directions,
And I am never meant to be in one place.
We are not meant to have a standard sightseeing radius of one cul-de-sac,
But rather drift and soar to various dimensions and realities.
Without this freedom, we both simply cease to exist as an entity.
And so, when we find ourselves trapped-
Which is the one primitive and instinctual fear birds and humans alike have in common-
Desperation and panic cannot begin to describe
The depth of the dark cave of unfitting enclosure
In which our brightly vibes of body and mind find ourselves in.
We ****** and thrash ourselves in a suicidal manner against the bars,
We refuse food and drink in silent protest and rebellion,
And then beg and plead with our captors to be let free at last,
Wondering why, the hummingbird and I, deserve to suffer.
What did we do?
Claustrophobia is a serious issue. And it does not have to be in the form of a cage.
And it chokes.
Hummingbirds are delicate creatures.
If you squeeze too tightly, their eyes will bulge out of their skull,
And their heart will race to extreme measures,
Until they are crushed and are no more,
Leaving the captor’s hands wet and sopping
With blood and guts and feathers.
Please do not crush me.

The grip I had on the ground was unsure and unsteady, due to the textured rocks encompassing the area, as well as the predictable plank of wood every foot or so. My body was sideways, but directly parallel to the galloping pair of thick metal bars that never intersected, and appeared to go on forever. Forever. My view of this place was eternal.
On either side of me, I could only see a few miles out before the thick fog kidnapped my beloved pathway, my beloved railroad. So I guess my view really was not eternal, but when your standard sightseeing radius is only as big as your cul-de-sac, a few miles in each direction sounds pretty appetizing.
Something about train tracks, they just soothe me. Perhaps it’s because I look for symbols in everything, like the way characters in a good novel do. What can I say, the potential for adventure is too **** high for me not to live my life always searching, and always following an invisible path of inner meaning. That’s the only reason I can come up with as to why I like trains. Maybe they symbolize a journey; an adventure to embark on. Maybe the different pathways one can take in life. Options are always good. Maybe it’s a sense of always moving forward, because trains hardly ever chug backwards. They just trudge along, ever so steady. I just find that so **** pretty.
It probably doesn’t even matter that I like trains and railroads, or why I think I like them. What’s important here is the small and simple fact that I was standing on a great set of tracks that day with two very special people that I knew at the time. It wasn’t planned, this encounter. Things like this are never planned. In fact, I couldn’t quite believe we were there. I had just needed some Chick Fila or something. Comfort food is always nice. But that’s the thing about good friends. They know things about you, like how you have this weird thing for railroads. And they try to make you feel better on days such as when you found out your dad disappeared.
So they pick you up and ignore the clean streaks left on your face when your tears plunged through the makeup on your cheeks, because you wouldn’t want to talk about that. She takes you to her boyfriend’s house, who inadvertently happens to be with the ex love of your life. And as it turns out, what you need isn’t at her boyfriend’s house, but the ex love of your life offers to get it from his house, which is how the ex love of your life came to be sitting in the backseat of your best friend’s Volvo on the worst day of your life, en route to the neighborhood where the ex love of your life lives, which happens to be located near the railroad tracks oh sweet lord. And when the stuff needed was recovered at the ex love of your life’s house- well we’re already here, so why not go under the railroad bridge and put that stuff to good use. Good friends do exactly that.
In the distance, I hear what sounds like my sanity whistling a high, single-note tune. It was coming, but maybe in about twenty minutes. And we had to leave in ten, because with me, there is always a time limit. I am always running from, away, and out of, time. But I try to enjoy the fleeting, split-second moments I am lucky to receive every now and then. Like right now. Because who would’ve thought I would be straddling the train tracks, ******, at one of my favorite locations ever, with my best friend and the ex love of my life that, side note, I haven’t spoken to in an awfully long time and who, by the way, keeps gazing intensely in this direction. Definitely not me.
I would’ve been fine with a Chick Fila run, but as I said before, best friends know when you need a nice adventure before you even have to attempt to subtly hint at it and hope for the best.

Oh bulletin board,
you are an ever-growing hoard
of memories no one else will remember.
Positioned so carefully in December
so the moon can illuminate you
through my sorry window in blue
on nights when I require tormenting.
You love to evoke my lamenting
about how I seemed to overlook
an important aspect that shook,
about how those on my wall
would never be able to recall
any thoughts of me at all
thumbtacked on their wall.

For the first time that night, I felt like I should never have climbed out of my laundry room window, creeped into a foreign car, and ended up inside a mystery house. How could I have been so oblivious and naïve? His name was Cody, the possessive and powerful varsity football player who chose to act upon his compulsion. Why did I have to come here?
I continued to search my way out of that labyrinth of a house, stumbling stumbling further and further from the back room, from which I could hear Cody calling my name. Twenty more steps. If I was going to escape this predicament, now was the time to do so. There were only fifteen steps separating the front door and me. I attempted to stifle any audible sound emitted from my feet so that the football player wouldn’t be able to hear me if he listened. Ten more steps. Eight. Seven. His beckoning grew closer and louder, as if he were right behind me, reaching for me just to drag me back into submission and compliance. Only four more steps. Three. The door was in focus for me now, so close I could touch it, my freedom and its release. I forced whatever mental and physical strength I had left into my hands to push open the door and step out into the humid summer night. Behind me, I heard Cody attempting to reason with me, which almost made me turn around, but, with my resistance, I found myself spitting the words: “How dare you, don’t you touch me... I have to leave now...” I was about to lose it. My heart was racing. My lungs were desperate for something more than short, panicky breaths. My body was close to giving up, giving in, surrendering...
No. Out into the night, I slammed the house door behind me and walked determinedly to the car.
My fingers dialed the number to my sister on my phone. My sister, who was supposed to protect me, and didn't. I said:
“Take me home, now.”
Never shall I forget that room, the room where it happened, when I was kissed and touched for the first time against my will.
Never shall I forget being pinned down on a smelly bed.
Never shall I forget that boy’s contorted face whose hands wandered over me with such desperate need in a silent place.
Never shall I forget that night which consumed my faith in love for many years.
Never shall I forget the mouth that deprived me of oxygen and mashed our tongues together.
Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my youth and my innocence and turned my hope to narcissism.
Never shall I forget those things, no matter how many times a boy tells me it’s all right now.
Never.