Dear Oxnard
Dear My House,
You were a shelter for my runaway friends, closet walls to write on, and boxes to stash Bailey's. Countless black books of scribbled quotes and sketched ideas. Windows with easy access to the roof, stars and cigarettes. A practice pad for countless bands. A place my mother could serve tea, offer advice and conversation that would mean more to me than anything. A place where my father watched football and misplaced his rage. Where my brothers protected and raised each other. A place where I found a family out of friends.