Stainless steel,
granite countertops,
crowded cabinets,
and branded appliances.

Whirring,
clanking,
beeps and whistles.

All ours is not.

You won’t find my heart there:
left to be abandoned in a lonely corner,
only greeting soles on holidays,
when arms are forced to open to guests
and lips are stretched to reveal lying whites
because deep darks abided in our chests.

You’ll find it in enclosed in the hall.
Confined, airless, even claustrophobic.
But there are no cobwebs here.
No mildew, no rust,
no crumbs or dust.

You’ll find it underneath the floorboards,
creaking with every footstep,
playing the chords that made up the rhythms and beats
of systolic and diastolic melodies.

You’ll find it in the windowsill,
planted with the succulents,
resilient to forgetful hands
and yet affectionate to sunbeams
who pulsed perfectly.

There are days when the sunshine feels insensitive.
But it is in every throb and rise, murmur and fall,
that life floods in.

It’s funny to me when people say the kitchen is the heart of the home.
If it was, my heart would be empty.

*—S.C., September 23, 2015

Silver sliver slices through
whites, glides.
Pop.
Yellow blood bleeds,
spills, sludges.
Salt sprinkled on the sparkling slate
meets tongue.
"Good mornings" sung.

*—S.C., March 25, 2015

You told me you loved words
and so I started writing you love poems,
passionately concealing them
in between sheets of books.
I started lending you pages
of myself, hiding within each signature
giggling, imagining your face
once you stumble upon my words,
finding them nestled within yours.

But maybe I misunderstood,
because you never came by
to browse through Aquinas
or Ahumada or Alvarez.
You never sought to re-read
Lopez or Lewis--those whose
words you said you've kept
lovingly locked within.

I wouldn't have waited for so long
if I had known that you've already
loaned your words and settled yourself
in between someone else's sheets.

*—S.C., October 18, 2015

Hey, I don't mean any offense, but man,
your lyrics lack essence!

Walking disasters with their gang signs and excuses
of artistic freedom spit out words
and pass it off as lyrics;
with their rebellious attitudes,
rhymes from ******* to *******;
addicted, afflicted, constricted, predicted.
Please.
Words you produce
are misused, overused.
With twenty-six letters and endless combinations,
your lyrics sound more like quotations!
I've heard those stories before.
If you want to stand out,
stand up
and walk through disasters.
I want words
that stir,
that move,
that breathes
a different air into these lungs
who's tired of clones and copies,
words that no longer shake this body.
I want words of liberation,
acclamation of passions,
filtration of frustrations,
words of sensations,
plantations and gestations
of hope and light,
strength that will keep me in sight
of the goals in the Fight.
Now that
is artistic freedom.

*—S.C., October 2, 2014

Failing fingers taunt her promise to keeping despite destiny's disordered attractions. Amidst entwinement's slim truths slept Hope's awakening.

*—S.C., October 25, 2014

They can thank their stride-clicking heels for their towering stature, but when their hands fail to give, their status is fails to compete.

*—S.C., October 24, 2014

He told me to take a breath after forgetting to breathe.
I didn't realize He would fill my lungs
only for them to take my breath away again.

*—S.C., October 23, 2014

Tired faces, tired places. Her aching heart quietly losing the battle to her soul's sweet singing as her feet followed Dauntless' modest steps.

*—S.C., October 22, 2014

Yesterday tears cascaded and I whispered,
"This cross is too heavy."

Today He said "I know," and showed me His.

*—S.C., October 21, 2014

Gratification rooted in nobodies
walked out
while gentleness for the self
walked in.
The counting stopped, no longer blocked, passion
unlocked.

*—S.C., October 20, 2014

The devil does not come
draped in a red cape, or
flaunting pointy horns.
He comes as everything
you've always wished for.

Twisted satisfaction,
unfulfilled promises,
he leaves you wanting more.
Constantly searching,
endlessly seeking.

E m p t i n e s s .

Your lips speak of death
while your soul asks to be rescued
from the torment
of seeing everyone else breathing
while the rising waters hinders you from reaching.

You ask the world,
and they do not listen.
You ask God,
and you find outstretched hands.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014 (latest edit: March 13, 2014)

We were learning about World War I—
I think.
I didn't know.
And it showed
through the empty paper, unfilled fill-in-the-blanks, and the
"Come see me" at the top of the page.
His eyes screamed Poor girl! as he whispered
"One more time."
But one more time,
and nothing changes.
So instead of filling the white page with words,
she adorned it with tears.

She ran to the bathroom where the ***** walls reflected
her chaotic soul.
Hidden in the stalls, she revealed her shame,
and bounded by shame, she released her hurt.
But it hurt even still...
unable to flush the waterfall from her eyes.
So a stranger, a plumber, made her heart full
when she told her
"Don't cry."
Her eyes sang to her the million reasons why.

It seems as if the world had gotten it all wrong.
The girl who was normal was not—
and the girl with down-syndrome didn't have down-syndrome at all, but the
up-syndrome,
infecting all those who were sick
with her contagious smile that was the vaccine
to the world trodden with
down-syndrome.

*—S.C., March 12, 2014

It seems as if you come
at the right time
every Monday,
every Wednesday,
every Friday;
when the sun hits the windows perfectly
and the sunbeams cast spotlights
on the dust-mites dancing in the room.
Even the muddiness of my eyes
become filled with gold.

But maybe it isn't because of the sunlight.
Maybe it's because my eyes longed to imitate the light in yours.

*—S.C., March 12, 2014

The girl sitting all by herself no longer does so from fear or shame.
But from peace and wholesome satisfaction in her Maker,
w o n d e r - s t r u c k
                                  by God's language
                                                        ­      of  p e r f e c t
                                                               ­                     s i l e n c e .

*—S.C., February 5, 2014

Rain falls heavily.
She curses under her breath.
Only to learn
of its life-bringing depth.

She is drenched—
in mercy,
in love,
in grace.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014

I have a love for sitting in busy places where people pass by,
where faces and phases are masked and disguised
with smiles that lie
and words of "I'm fine."

My head fills with wonder of their trials and their triumphs,
of the times they've suffered and the moments they've succumbed
to pressures, temptations,
and occasions that needed patience.

I gaze with awe, curious of their stories,
their wins and defeats, and pains that they carried.
Lives so beautifully woven by God's graceful fingers,
my heart they've stolen, I doubt they even figure.

Lovely people, they don't even know.
It breaks my heart that their value's unknown
to family, friends,
and those with whom they need to make amends.

Most of all, they don't know themselves
of their strength, their power,
of their bravery and valor.

So here's to you, you reading this line:
Pursue, push through, take this as a sign.
Believe it or not, you are perfectly designed.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014 (latest edit: February 25, 2014)

Inadequacy.
Anything and everything
was never enough.
Stopped trying, gave it all up.
She emptied, He overflowed.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014 (last edit: March 13, 2014)

A muted mile,
treading feet.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Battered body,
troubles and trials.
One step, two
another distance conquered.
Closer to the finish line,
yet a thousand more ahead.
Bruised and broken,
carried with Immaculate Hands
misty eyes and tears of relief
Love has overcome.

*—S.C., February 5, 2014

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
after our six-hour drive.
Sounds of traffic outside my window
remind me I'm no longer home.
Our house, not home, was empty—
filled with silence and awkward glances.
Even father stared at the wooden floors
stained with scratches whose art matched those
of the masterpieces our neighborly spiders
have conjured up in the corners of our lonely abode.

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday
after our six-year stay.
Clinking silverware, stomping feet, morning chaos
Home.

*—S.C., January 29, 2014