i have always wanted to
make you proud.
but the harder i try,
the less you care, it seems.
i didn't cry that day,
but i really wanted to.
you taught me about myself
in a few minutes,
and you watched me closely
as i learned the ropes.

and today it's so cloudy and i am
freezing cold
and i just want you to be proud
because i am still smiling.

i am at home,
here,
covering up and
staring out the window,
and i can't wait to smile at you.
because maybe,

*this time you'll smile back

i used to think
that i was a tiny dancer
in a music box,
spinning and sparkling
in front of a little mirror,
and girls would make me dance
when they were at their worst,
i would dance and smile,
and their tears would dry,
and they would see their beauty
behind me,
but i was just looking in the wrong mirror.
i used to think i was
the dawn,
stretching out over the horizon,
untouchable,
but dusk came.
i used to call myself
superwoman (or supergirl, because i hadn't
grown up)
and i thought i was invincible,
but i broke my arm when i
ran towards the villain.
i used to say i was a pop-star,
with thousands of adoring fans,
until i realized only my mum
liked my singing.
and then i saw
a monster in the mirror,
and it consumed me for
what felt like forever,
until, finally,
i realized that i was a
tiny dancer,
and if i danced,
i could dry my own tears.
i was the dawn,
but i was also the dusk,
bringing stars to the
broken hearted
(bringing stars to myself)
and i wasn't superwoman,
or even supergirl,
but i could befriend her
and learn her ways.
and when i sang to
the people who mattered,
the people who i loved,
they were soothed,
they liked to hear me sing,
and all was well.
sometimes,
i can still see that monster,
but behind her is the girl
who i know i can be.

there is something about the way the trees dance in the wind and how that exact same breeze grazes your skin, makes you shiver, causing you to crawl under your blankets to warm you at night and to shield you from everything bad. there is something miraculously wonderful and beautiful about that. you listen to your favourite bands but they can't seem to explain why this is happening, and yet we are all just stars in a galaxy and once the light dies out no one will flinch except the hearts that we have touched the most and i guess thats why hearts will oddly skip a beat at 4am on a saturday morning. lungs will die out; skin deteriorating but thats okay because i'm sure there is something beyond what our eyes can see. like when people make bucket lists when really they are subliminally planning out near-by life goals. and unfinished novel is processed so you can pick up the pen one day and write again. write until your hand starts bleeding, your heart stops beating. funny how people always complain about the noises cars create and they never stop to hear the sound of trees, brushing leaf against leaf in a summer breeze. there is nothing poetic about a messy room although i wish it could be- i would use it as a metaphor to show that my life is changing slowly. new rims on cars, new boys, new city lights to gaze upon, 12 am walks by yourself with lonely cigarettes and empty words lost in a fire raging society of *** and abuse but i can't seem to put my finger on who. fake tattoos and dark purple bruises. quiet nights yet you feel like the walls caving in. extreme voices in your head. disorders are not poetic but if it brings true awareness i hope one day it will be. do not mask your scars, instead count them. eventually you will die and old soul and smiling child and your stars the remain will continue to shine on for you.

-next i will count the planets

conceptcollection

there's a drain
in this ******
middle school bathroom.
shoulder to shoulder
stalls,
and toilet paper stuck
here, there,
and above me.
one light has burnt out,
and it smells like
feminine products,
cherry lip gloss,
and electric nerves.
but there is a drain,
and it is my favorite part.
because if my eyes squeeze shut
then i am bones,
liquefied,
slipping into the spaces,
joining the world underneath.
and i reform,
i solidify as a crying little girl,
who still has to do math tests.

r.c.

and i was like
maybe i can get this poem out,
get the life in me out.
but i am falling asleep,
skin on fire.

you can
read my poetry
in the breaths i take to cry
short,
gasps.
you can
read my poetry,
as neurotically
as my nightmares on a hot summer night.
it is poetry,
not the national anthem.

r.c.

H o r r o r stories
Are your eyes (clear, drained of color as you
Cry)
Roaming the words on my
Bone marrow.
Because they say
'You should have been here'
And
'**** you for leaving without goodbye'
And you're on the floor,
Laying in my weakness.
I bleed, you watch, I clean up,
You go.
Later, you are laughing.
The pain is gone from your eyes,
From your palms.
You have become the anger in my throat as I scream
'***** you!'
And you catch me by
My wrist
Before I slap
That pretty little face.
You are crying too,
But you pull me in as I thrash,
And tell me you're never leaving again.
But I wake up, wander to the room we
Were going to meet in.
Are you there?
Of. Course. Not.
One more story in my bone marrow book.

r.c.