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Renee Dec 2014
the literary world says there are four types of conflict:
1) girl vs. girl
we have to let the world scar us enough to be normal
but not so much that we are crazy fools.
supposed to be wolves in sheep's clothing,
'look at her!'
boys don't look half as much as we do
taught as we are to pay attention to everything.
2) girl vs. society
you tell us what to do and shame us for it,
but the lies are prettier than any reality we've ever known.
we are going to be nothing but kids,
no matter what we do.
3) girl vs. nature
our bodies and our hearts are enemies.
the world puts us in places where freedom is a story,
and the only thing we as humans were made to do
is simply not possible, or is simply terrible.
4) girl vs. self
every one of these other conflicts,
make us a mirror that changes every moment.
the trick to to find out which reflection of ourselves
was there before we entered the arena
which side of ourselves
has the least battle scars.
or if the scars persist,
than they must compliment what was already there,
as opposed to changing it beyond recognition.
Renee Jun 2014
when I feel sad or bad or hopeless
my first thought is that
it could be worse.
and I don't mean african children
cause I'm not talking about physical problems.
I mean my friends.
I feel sad and lost:
at least I don't think
I'm on a roller coaster that only goes down.
I feel alone:
at least I talk to
more than two people.
I feel confused:
at least my wrists are bare,
my family is together and calm,
my school isn't hell on earth.
I don't have a boyfriend:
at least he didn't kiss and throw me away,
at least he didn't ruin my life,
at least he didn't break my heart.
At least I am not as insecure as he and she are,
at least my mind isn't a puzzle,
at least the letters on a page make sense.
I have not lost my passion,
been pushed around by those called "friends",
dumped with an invitation in the air,
given up all hope for this universe.
I don't think its all pointless,
I haven't gotten told a define no.
I look around and I tell myself the selfish encouragement:
It could be worse
Renee Aug 2015
the stories fill with warnings,
from the dawn of time onto the recent years:
for those who seek an end to mortal death,
the only laurels at their grave are made of tears.

it is only by a gods' mere fancy
that such stories ever end in less than strife
for the rest who are not quite so lucky
their short lives make a mockery of life.

Those who sought the greatest gift was ever given,
fall prey to pain and misery too soon:
they wish to see the dawning of the horsemen,
but rarely live to see another June.

A thousands sins seem at once to come a calling,
the not-so-hidden implication plain:
the man who wishes to evade the darkest angel
already has upon his soul a stain.

The bishops and the saviors never want it,
nor do good children who say their prayers at night:
the only ones who seek to cheat the system
are portrayed as far more dark than light.

Through the annals of our books we get the story:
to wish away a deadly end is wrong
we scorn the cheaters of our human nature
and honor all the martyrs with our song.

This is only because we live in envy,
in desperate hoping and in hidden fear
of the inevitability of ending:
that some New Year's we will enter our last year.

We raise up those who dare to have the courage,
to conquer fear and smile in Death's face,
for secretly we wish the impossible
and know that we could never take their place.

A chosen few express this hidden longing
and get shoved back with epithets of old,
whipping out the stories of the devil,
of long lives lived friendless, harsh and cold.

Yet I have read a number of these stories:
and still persist in darkening my heart
for I do not see myself within those pages:
with the devil I will have no part.

I wish for impossibility
for a circle that never ends,
less so as I grow older
for now my thoughts depend

Far more on what the world thinks
than what I think of me,
concerning words like fantasy
and immortality.

To mock what we all dream of
is to deny the truth:
we all seek immortality
and everlasting youth.

To give ourselves lofty feelings,
that we consider pure and fine
is to no use if they are false
yet we preach them all the time.

We are not pure and simple:
we want what we cannot get
we want what we should not want
but we make ourselves forget

Perhaps some day I will meet my end,
but I will not say for sure:
for this longing's part of the human state
and for that there is no cure.
Renee Jan 2015
just a few years ago,
I would have said that I lived in a world
of candle flames
surrounded by glittering fires
brilliant-lit faces.
but time goes on,
and winds blow cold.
one by one,
the fires dim.
the glimmer fades
few candles are left to keep the others alight,
too few to stretch their light so far.
as sullen faces lose their rosy splendor
and one by one
they cry
"it's going out."
the black wicks of brilliant flame
surround me like winter forest,
and while they can be lit again
the longer the snow falls,
the harder it will be.
the colder the wind blows
the more will join them.
if the wind does not stop
they might not...
might not get to light again.
do not think me morbid:
the candles themselves will not fall,
I pray,
but there is existing as a candle
burned out before you even begin your life
and there is living as a torch in the darkness
the torches of glorious hope.
I light them on fire as much as I dare
but my flame will not last forever
if I am not careful.
the wind chills me as well
yet I persist
for someone has to glitter
with hope
someone has to light the road to happiness
for my flickering little candles in the cold
be brave, my friends,
remember the shining light of years gone by
we are meant to set the world on fire
but all I can see are wisps of smoke
where there is smoke there is fire
*where there is light there is hope
Renee Mar 2016
'it's the biggest decision"
as if I can choose-
this could be fun,
without so much to lose

there's no risk for you,
like there's tearing at me
no burdens upon who
you turn out to be

and don't dare cry "pressure"
"expectations", I know:
you've got to grow up
to have money to blow

I have to grow up
to have money to keep
my parents alive
as they grow old and weak

I have to grow up
to have money to live
because my parents love me,
but they having nothing to give

you think the stakes have gotten too high?
you joke about wanting to not even try?

keep laughing, my friends,
even as you complain,
for you know next to nothing
about a whole world of pain.
Renee Jul 2019
somehow, I thought love was going to be harder than this,
a raging storm or a burning fire. first love, at least, was supposed
to be a whirlwind, overwhelming and frantic and never letting me rest, breathlessness and helplessness -
that is what love was supposed to be,
but my love, you are not like the stories,
our love is not the way it was supposed to be.
you are comfort and ease, the way it feels to lay down in a bed at night, the way a hot drink feels on a cold day, the way food tastes when you've been hungry for a long time.
our love is warmth and cool all at once, whatever is most refreshing, like the touch of your arms in the hazy light of morning,
like the rush of the wind when you fly down the highway.
it catches in my throat, even now that I say it:
I love you I love you I love you,
and I understand why they said this is scary,
because one feeling begins to wrap around me entirely,
until you are my comfort and you are my home,
and it is not helplessness, but it is weightlessness,
free-floating with only you to hang onto,
our dual lives like wings that rise and fall in unison:
brushing our teeth together, driving with your hand on my knee, speaking in each-other's adopted words, slowly blurring the line between what is mine and what is yours and now there are things and experiences that are called ours
and this love is ours and I could never have thought it would feel like this but it does it does it does!
Renee Aug 2014
who cares what we do
we are quick burning tinder
every new idea like a spark
they catch and set us alight.
set us off like firecrackers,
blue with shamelessness and
green with hopefulness,
red with anger that the fantasies were wrong.

who cares what we become
we are a gun ready to fire
like the fingers we point at our heads as a joke.
who shall we injure?
perhaps it will be the parents
with their never-ending echos of 'we only want the best'
or maybe ourselves
when the mirror starts cracking,
and our well-kept illusions cannot help but fade.

who cares what we think
we are still-sleeping dragons
young ones, not ready
to take on the world.
and they keep us this way
cause they know what will happen
once we figure life out,
they will wish they had cared.
Renee May 2015
too often we see the battered bodies
of childhood or teenagedom.
sacrificed on the pyre,
in order to light a burning blaze to a rosy future.
set them alight, work them to the bone,
hoping that you will be transfigured when you pass through the door
to adulthood.
and they never mention that it's all a lie:
that tearing yourself to pieces does not mean you will blossom
more beautifully
that wearing down the colorful edges of shapes that do not fit into rigid holes
leaves you with ripped out wings that you can never get back.
you think that this time is only good for what comes after it?
that golden days are only good as memories or funny stories?
you think that growing up means getting better,
evolving as it were
reaching for better things.
and if that's true, then it makes sense to throw the skinny body on the fire
let the blood out for the gods of adulthood
tell yourself that all the work,
that all the pain,
will be worth it
it has to be worth it
you breathe,
when tears stain your cheeks and papers swirl
like a drowning wave of expectations,
that you can never be good enough for.
But when you finally trudge up the mountain to lay down on the alter
expecting someone different to rise out of the brokenness
the gods will only laugh
because:
the person who you hope will benefit from all of this,
the future you,
is nothing but a fantasy.
and you are broken, bruised, and battered,
and must struggle down the hill, alone.
we are not butterflies.
we do not change our shape.
we cannot run from what we put ourselves through
we can only bear it.
Renee Dec 2017
(count your blessings,
small adult with crooked teeth,
stop stressing:
everything is in your reach)

new names,
plastered in my sober head,
new games,
longing for another bed.

the future rises:
shining office, perfect blueprint,
new disguises,
wealth and power aren't distant.

I want
more than I had even known
I can't
have all the glories I've been shown

he is
nothing more and nothing less
a risk
a secret I cannot confess

they are
fantasies until I dare,
forbidden stars
but for now I only stare

I have
more than I have ever had
who cares?
if the price to pay is bad

I will
stand upon that golden stage
fulfill
every wish I ever made

I will
rest beside him once again
until
he will not call me his friend

I will
kiss her someday in the dark
instill
my longing in another heart

welcome
to the gift this age can give
welcome
to the grown-up way to live.
Renee Mar 2018
I know how I will meet my soulmate: I have gone over it a hundred times, told it to all my friends,
and they all agree.

There will be a club, or a bar, or a party, some dim-lit place with colored lights, cold glasses if we've graduated past solo cups,

I will be there with a friend or two, because I am not an idiot, but we will not hang on each-other like we do now, because we will be a little more like adults.

So I will be alone, when it happens: There will be an *******, like there always is, some man who smells like beer and entitlement,
drunk and leering at me.

And I will scowl, my fists ready at my sides, not a wallflower and not a doormat, words ready on my tipsy lips.

But then there he is, shooting out of nowhere as the ******* reaches for me, the frantic chaos of a fight erupting in the middle of the room as they go at it, lasting until someone shouts loud enough to find a man big enough to throw them both out.

For a moment, I wait as they are hustled out the door, I wait by the window or the door as I can hear the ******* yelling something as his slurred voice fades away, I wait and I look back at my friend who nods to me, her face a puzzle under the colored lights.

"Be careful," she mouths at me and I nod, pulling open the door to let in the night, pulling down my short skirt as I step out onto the sidewalk to see him sitting there on the curb, looking up at the sky.

I sit down beside him and look at him for the first time, his face lit up by the nearby streetlight, the neon signs of cheap restaurants, and he is beautiful and his smile is a permanent smirk and his dark hair is a perfect mess and his eyes are dark like mine and he looks at me and is puzzled.

"Thank you," I say, and then: "Are you okay?"

He turns his head towards me and I can see the blood on his face, his split lip trailing a dark line down his neck, a stripe across his right cheek making him look like some kind of warrior, and his jacket is dark, almost too big for him, for he is not a large man at all, much smaller than the ******* had been.

"It's nothing," he says with a smile, and he looks at me as if he has never seen anyone like me before, and we introduce ourselves and we talk and the stars come out in the narrow strip of sky between the buildings, and when a crazy man lopes down the street, he takes my hand and pulls me to his side, instantly alert.

He is a little drunk, too, and the words pour out of him easily, and he is not too old and not too young, and he traces my skin and when I go in to kiss him without thinking about it, he tastes a little bit like the blood from his lip, and I realize and I say:

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you," and he kisses me again and I make sure to text my friend before I go over to his place, promise her that I will be okay, promise her that I trust this boy with bruised knuckles and a ****** face.

I will be in love with him from that first night, though I will not tell him until he is ready to hear it, and he will not be a simple sort of man to love and live with, but he will be the same boy I have always loved, dark eyes lighting on my face, my partner-in-crime, a little too much and yet exactly enough.
Renee May 2014
so I am still a child,
I know.
They tell me everyday.
why don't I follow the unspoken rules
there can only be one way.
so what
the copper colored glasses
so what
the blue-tinted smoke over pale faces.
so what
we grow up.
and the pictures on the wall
scream that this is the only way
that it is ever done.
Renee Dec 2014
if this is what we must do to win,
to do what must be done,
then I pray for the child who must say that she lost
and I pray for the child who won.
Renee Feb 2019
to a boy who towered over me,
to a wonderful friend,
to the bad boy and the saint all at once,
to the clever boy,
to my reflection in a fun-house mirror,
to self-destruction personified,
to the golden boy with his head in the clouds,
to the boy who always gets lucky.

I.
in the bathroom, after you kissed me, you told me that you did it because I was the only one who hit back and it ended in fire but our kingdom was gold, and those are the memories I try to hold.

II.
I wish your name wasn't a common word: the world reminds me of you, the pressure went up, and now here we go, and I tell you my own truth: my confidence only seems to fail in one aspect, and that aspect is you, and I wonder how I'm ever supposed to tell you that you deserve everything when you don't believe you deserve anything at all.

III.
my god, the way you look when you sleep, I am not alone anymore, all that we need are what the other can bring, and if I play my cards right this could be a wonderful thing, because we are the ones who the universe loves and it has given us each-other, and this could be a wonderful adventure, and god I hope it is.
Renee Sep 2016
come, rest beside me
take off your boots, dusty from the road
let your hands uncurl from their fists,
press them against the warmth of this rock,
until they can be open again.

take off your socks,
clinging with fear to your feet.
the new grass is waiting for you,
and it is always just cool enough.

if you like,
there are flowers for your wrists and head,
stems thick enough to string together into crowns,
garlands, even, if you're being ambitious.

as the sun goes down,
the stone is still warm to the touch,
the first lesson of happiness I ever learned:
run to the things that keep on burning,
with the fire that warms and comforts.

we wear the leather jackets of our name, our age,
stained with the smoke of our reforging,
on the threshold of possibility,
see the children at the cross-roads.

see us pressed against the last stone of memory,
see us feeling for the last hint of sun,
hear the lyrics, the quotes, the poems,
that someone carves into the rock with a knife.

children with their flower garlands,
tasting sourness on their tongues,
twisting their mouths around shoots of grass
twisting their mouths around each-other.

the yellow blooms are like **** candy,
like one of those old photographs:
jackets hanging on the trees.

arrogant boys and sarcastic girls,
red lipstick staining the backs of our hands,
grass staining our knees.

the cross-road stone anchors us
as we stare into the sunset,
pressing close to each-other,
as the waiting period begins to end.
Renee Jan 2018
it is hard to be a girl because you are torn between what you are supposed to do and what you are supposed to want, nevermind what you really feel, because that is the role you play:
this is the price you pay.

you are supposed to want a good boy,
a relationship,
opened doors and emotional connection,
nothing more intense than holding hands in public
and a white, white wedding down the line.

and if you decide that you want something else,
if you are interested in nothing more and nothing less
than dim-lit nights and passing men
the intoxication of physical contact,
no expectations expected,
than you are broken, or you are in denial,
and no one wants a crazy girl.

you are supposed to do
whatever he tells you to,
whatever he asks, in that careful tone,
that tells you what it means if you say no.
he knows, and you do not,
and you are his playtoy,
even though you are a woman
and he is a boy.

and if you decide that you will not stand for it,
question him or make him talk,
push emotions on him that he is not yet mature enough to handle,
(nevermind that he is older than you, but there is such a word as man-child but not woman-child because we have no choice but to grow up),
then you a *****, then you are a fool,
then you will lose him,
or worse,
he will tell the world,
and you will lose yourself.

so you tell me that I am supposed to want one thing and do another?
you do not want me to want to do what he says,
and yet you expect me to obey anyway?
I am supposed to have no desire beyond a child's,
no needs like he has,
and yet I am supposed to lay there nonetheless,
obedient but not longing,
just following the unwritten rules.

you want me to be unhappy, I see it now,
it is a game that I am never meant to win.
either I am broken and strange
or destined to be alone...
what kind of choice is that?

so I grit my teeth and pretend I don't want this,
pretend that I do not ache for more unrestful nights,
pretend that I love you when I do not,
I just love touching you,
that is your expectation,
but if I ever said it,
it would mean my downfall and my shame.

they tell you, in these situations,
that you need to be yourself,
but no one ever gave me that kind of choice.

they showed me beauty and love and said:
"here is the role a woman will play"
"this is the price you have to pay"
Renee Mar 2017
delicate fingers trace the smooth surface of the pictures,
squinting under the dim street lights:
as weeds bend to try and join us,
as the edges of the cold bite at our necks.

they promise us the answers
we offer them our hearts, our wishes,
the ones that would die if we spoke them aloud.

we are creatures of cynicism
but for now we are believers,
hunched over the cards with bated breath:
silent for the benefit of suburban neighbors.

gripping at our phones
(our comfort objects)
in anticipation,

as she slowly tells us what they mean.

they come in dichotomies:
either beautiful or terrible.
all we desire or everything we've ever feared.

what is more powerful than ancient symbols on the street corner?
what is more believable than the tarot cards the atheist carries,
preaching to the Christians about a different kind of mystery?

the knowledge makes us reckless.
if we know it all,
we have nothing to lose.

the boys on their bikes are too high to pedal straight,
but we are on something far stronger,
and though they try to mess with us,
it is the girls who win in the end:
little boys, even you must have seen them,
these cards that can tell you anything you ask.

be careful what you wish for:
we are made of dark eyes and dark jackets,
wondering how long the power will last.

three is the magic number
and the stars are shining in a clear night
and the boys are riding away, laughing
and the cards tell us that this will not last for very long.

(for once,
I hope they're wrong)

— The End —