20 Ways to Go Out With a Bang

1. Quit your job

2. Go tanning and buy short-shorts

3. Make Buffalo Wild Wings on Tuesday nights a tradition

4. Spend $40 on your best friend's birthday present

5. Create a blog for a class you aren't even enrolled in

6. Talk on the phone with your ex

7. Back into your mom's expensive car and don't tell her about it

8. Kiss at prom

9. Make LP's hottest junior your #1 on snapchat

10. Scheme your dad into filling up your gas tank for the past 10 times

11. Carry the clothes of 12 male streaking polynesians

12. Take 4 AP tests in 1 week

13. Listen to unedited rap music even though you're an 18-year-old white girl

14. Take a sleeping pill every night

15. Go to Dixie and get invited to hang out with college boys because you told them you're graduated

16. Hypnotize your friend

17. Download Tinder

18. Have suggestive dance parties in your friend's basement 

19. Go to Slam Poetry nights and pretend to be indie

20. Let go

-S.C.

Since We're All Naked Now

My childhood friends still call me Bonnie Jo.

I don't know if it's an old-habits-die-hard kind of thing or whether or not they just can't seem to get past the bouncy brown curls and the sweaters my mom made me wear so I could match my sister. I threw enough tantrums over those, but she seemed to always win. The only thing more powerful than my hate for those sweaters was the need for my mom's approval.

I'm 18 years old now and the sweaters don't fit me anymore. They may be packed away in a box in our basement with dust collecting in the stitching to mute out the vibrant colors and smell like faded memories.

My hair grew out and the scar on my nose faded and I finally worked up the courage to wear makeup when 9th grade came around because everyone else was doing it. I felt prettier and my eyelashes were longer but I still washed it off when I got home from school cause I hated it and still do.

After 6 years of the social hell they call public schooling I mastered the art of trying to say the right thing and not asking for too much attention because they'll rip you apart in this jungle if you don't walk on the fine line.

I took creative writing because I like to write and I ended up discovering myself. Farrah Fawcett helped me do that and Scarlet Carol helped me finish it.

You could say that I'm a coward and I'd say that you're right. I hid behind a pen name for round two.

Nelson burned my hiding place and I have nothing to say but thanks because it was too small and I was too lonely in there without Miss Carter and Scarlet White and Jackie O. There's a spot saved for Trevor Powers and it might just have to wait because there isn't room for two. 

I don't miss hiding, either.

I'll write without apology and you can love it or hate it but it's still gonna be me.





-S.C.

My Extended Snow Day

I took my watch and smashed it under my foot
watching it grind into pieces
on the pavement.

The shards of its body, sharp
It is strange how we've become accustomed to the pain
when time was still intact.
Whole.




I don't look for minutes anymore.

Her Broken Confessions

I'm afraid.
I'm afraid.
I'm afraid.

Fear has gone to school with me every year. I don't remember how I met her, but I'll never forget her face. A dark, beautiful being, somehow seeming unaware of her potential. She's the corner dweller, sitting as far away from the Knight as possible because she doesn't want to take it away from the cool kids. And she could take it, too. She just doesn't know that.

Fear paints her nails black and dyes her hair every few months. People don't usually notice when she's gone, but they definitely notice when she's here. She attracts attention unwillingly. It must be the sad eyes that droop around the edges that pierce the soul of the seer, only amplified by her gaze. She's quiet. A delicate fascination.

Fear is smart but she doesn't care about grades. Conversation comes naturally and people are drawn to her. It's effortless. She waits, and people come. People come. They always come.

I came once.
I've come a lot of times.

If I wasn't afraid, I wouldn't be home at midnight. I wouldn't unlock the back door and check in with my parents and go to sleep in spite of obedience. I would stay out and go where I wanted to go with who I wanted to go with. I wouldn't answer my phone when they called. I would be alive, instead of just living.

If I wasn't afraid I would tell half the girls in my grade that there's so much more to life than how much they weigh and what boys they date and how much time it takes them to get ready in the morning. I would tell them that it's not always about them, and I'd probably never talk to them again because I don't care about them any more than they pretend to care about me.

If I wasn't afraid, I would have pressed publish on this when it was actually due.

If I wasn't afraid, I would apologize to him because I was wrong. I took him for granted, and I wish I could take that back. 

And if I wasn't afraid, I wouldn't spend 3 years of my life pretending to be something I wasn't just to be accepted by other people. I wouldn't worry about having to say the right thing, and hang out with the right kids so I could be treated like I was important.

Fear was right. She's the worst friend I'll ever have.

And somehow, I don't think I have it in me to leave her.









-S.C.

A List of Things I Wish I Told Myself 2 Years Ago

-High school really isn't THAT fun

-Save your money for college and stop spending it on clothes

-You can't spend it on shoes either

-You aren't going to remember the nights you went home early

-Go crazy, and take risks

-Kiss as many boys as you can

-That really hot guy that took you to homecoming, date him

-Don't get with the guy that you want to get with the most

-Take time to make friends with the people who are different

-Be nicer to your friends when you take that trip in February 

-Don't be so blunt because you offend people 

-Draw more

-If you study for about 10 minutes every night, it'll make homework a hell of a lot easier

-Spend more time with your family

-Kiss as many boys as you can 

Yeah I know I put it there twice leave me alone

-S.C. 

Its Rainin' Bricks

I'm a brick
You're a brick
They're a brick
She's a brick
He's a brick
My mom's a brick
We're all bricks


brick
noun 

1.     a small rectangular block typically made of fired or sun-dried clay; used in building. 



I didn't always have to be this way. Our fate wasn't molded right from the start. 

We're born rocks. We're born disfigured and different and we have all these aspirations to go somewhere and be buried at the bottom of a volcano or in the ocean or lining up the edging in a backyard in the suburbs, surrounded with all of the other rocks who want to be there too. We want to be picked up on the road by a 5 year old who thinks we are pretty or thrown at a window by some rowdy teenage boys. We want to discover. We want to change. We want purpose. 

Years pass and we get these lists and we're told to behave a certain way and conform to the world. We have to be polite and be quiet when we are supposed to be and be popular and get friends and be accepted. We have to write in a certain format. Get an A. Be invited to Mckenzie Hansen's birthday party (i still hate you Mckenzie i bet your party sucked). 

We listen to what we're told, and then it's too late. 

Soon enough we're all the same 4 by 8 brick fresh out of the mold, and it doesn't matter what we're made of. We hide it inside and claim we want to be individuals but secretly we thrive in the comfort of looking the same as everyone else. There's protection in that. Safety.

Because if you aren't someone that can't be stacked in uniform, we'll throw you to the side and not think twice.

Everything that makes us different is disguised. Everything that makes us beautiful is hidden. We give it up, because we'd rather be safe than sorry.

All because of the stupid brick.

brick

noun

1.     a safety net; ensures acceptance and conformity, conceals all traces of individuality. 

I'm a brick

You're a brick
They're a brick
She's a brick
He's a brick
My mom's a brick
We're all bricks

-S.C.

Pain Killers

I think I've got a writer's block. 

You know, the thing when you want to write your feelings but every time you start you hate it and you delete stuff and cross it out and start over. I keep crumpling up the papers in my head and throwing them away in the trash (also my head).

They say dumpster diving is for poor kids but I'd say it's reserved for the rich.

The late afternoon thoughts swarm around the air and I get sleepy or weepy and I can smell them too. Or maybe that's the food. Mom's making dinner.

I can only shut my door so many times before it starts to creak. The walls aren't thick enough to block out the sounds of the footsteps from upstairs or the basketball bouncing outside my window. My feet get too hot when I sleep with socks on. The sound of the fan puts me to sleep even when I forget to plug it in.

Sometimes I wonder what God thinks when I waste time.

I think I've got a feeling's block. 

You know, the thing when you realize any normal person would react but every time you get the chance you'd rather push away and bury it instead of facing it head on. I keep tearing down old walls and building up bigger ones in the same place (my head).

They tell you to listen to your heart but I'd say don't let it fool you.

The late night thoughts drift through the air and I'm wide awake and numb so I can't feel them either. Or maybe I can. Maybe that's what my heartbeat is.

I can only shut my eyes so many times before it loses it's purpose. My eyelids aren't thick enough to protect me from things I wish I didn't have to see or the things people tell me I should feel. My ears work but I'm not really listening. The empty promises and long texts seem to blur together even when I know it wouldn't matter anyway.

Sometimes I wonder if God ever feels alone.






-S.C.