tight silk ******* with the lilac bra to match,
cream coloured knee high socks.
a collection of classic rock on vinyl and a compliments jar covered in news articles.

too many celebrity perfumes, but a versace collection that makes her think of the beach;
peach smelling deoderant.

chapter books on the floor accompanied by hair ribbons of baby blue and cotton candy pink,
****** by Vladimir Nabokov laying near the juvinile pale legs of beautiful sixteen,
as she paints each toe nail red, pink, white.

almost naked body, remember her tight, fresh lace set
hair perfectly auburn, lips perfectly light coral
mouth slightly open
Led Zepplin playing.
hairspray and rose powder,
unlit vanilla candles and twilight scented creams
she smells faintly of Modern by Banana Repulic and her daddy's cigarettes.

silently waving, a flag of patriotism
the beautiful, elegant sixteen.

-part 1

conceptcollection

Maybe

Maybe* she won't cry today,
And maybe he won't lie today,
And maybe life goes on today,
But maybe I'll be wrong today.

Maybe I'll be strong today,
And maybe tears won't fall today,
But maybe he'll break down today,
Because maybe she won't die today.

Maybe things get better today,
And maybe I'll write the letter today,
Maybe I'll sign my name in ink,
But maybe that's a permanent link.

Maybe that's too much for me,
Maybe "attached" is something I don't wanna be,
And maybe it'd be painful to watch,
Over the years; Death's painful march.

And maybe she'll go down today,
And maybe things won't be okay,
And maybe he'll give up and say,
That maybe he'll just run away.

But maybe I'll just cry today,
Maybe that's a better way.
Maybe that's my job today,
Maybe I'll just try to be okay.

Because maybe it's important to grieve,
And maybe it's okay to leave,
A little room to be left for me,
A little time to simply breath.

Maybe I should put myself first,
And maybe it wouldn't be the worst,
To maybe just take care of me,
Instead of being the one in lead.

*Maybe.

When I was little my mother put me in several ballet classes in hopes to bring some grace to my stumbling gait.

I grew up walking on eggshells, wobbling to keep my balance on a tightrope that never really ended.

 My instructor pinched my thighs and shook her bony finger at me every tuesday and thursday for three and a half years.

4 am, I'm still tiptoeing around the creaks in the stairs as if anyone would notice an empty bed.

 This Christmas I came across the broken reminents of the ballerina ornaments my younger sister used to play with.

I never did master the delicate posture I was expected to adopt. My feet fell a bit too heavy, I suppose, on the ice tonight.

I'm not cold anymore, just exhausted from attempting to balance the wrong things for too long.

My life is flashing before my eyes, but all I see is a younger version of myself practicing Grand Battements on thin ice while everyone slept.

The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that I fall in love daily
Held under so many captivating spells
moulded and crafted by all walks of life
I find myself longing for all of you
the broken, the fallen, the bruised
the saints, the sinners
the righteous, the dispossessed
the holy, the unholy
all meet here
to speak of life
as they feel it
as only we know it.
Onwards, upwards
Downward spirals
kindness, cruelty
crashing through boundaries
bounding across oceans
carried on wistful sighs and broken dreams
The trouble with Hello Poetry
Is that it breaks my heart
Then brings me back to love again
All within an hour.

To taste the sugar on your lips,
to float on the mist that is in your breath,
to be the sparkle in your eye,
to cherish me always until I die.