We live in bottlesb210b5ff0656551db284b7e7579549b6

Water from plastic bottles for survival and hydration

Anti-depressants from an orange twist-off so we don’t take our lives or the lives of others

Bottles of alcohol to drown out our sorrows

Bottles of liquor to give us courage and have a good time

We bottle our true selves and our feelings

Let the bottle fill up and soon it’ll burst

Get to the bottom of it and you’ll be empty

We will never be happy and fully satisfied

One bottle after another

Room That I Love

Dark blue walls surround me. Warmth and positive sacred air radiates and bounces off the paint. Mirrors hung on the walls reflect pretty lines and works of masterpieces. Wooden barres line the perimeter. A smooth gray marley sprung floor demonstrates a cloudy sky to dance upon. I’m in room 130 in the Arts and letters building.

At first, this room last semester brought me anxiety; worried that I won’t fit in, that I would be judged, of fear of failure and lack of acceptance. Negative thoughts and feelings aren’t welcome in this space. Take off your shoes upon entering, you are now in a neutral sacred space. A space where you can dream, experiment and bring topics to light.

Now, all I feel in this room is an outlet for feeling. I can sit in here and dream of choreography and ideas to play with; of ways to make pretty lines, bring to light controversial ideas, and describe feelings that can only be demonstrated through movement. I can create anything in here. My wildest dreams can be made public, broken down and shared. This room is anything I want it to be.

The wooden barres bolted to wall are my stepping stones, my training tools. They are my training wheels to practice and perfect alignment and dynamic combinations. They allow me to ride my figurative bike one handed while doing a wheelie in the centre. Petite allegro consisting of brise, royale, entre chat trois, glissade and assemble I can’t help but just sit on the gray marley floor. I have to get up and explore the space. Barely anything in here to contribute to the space. There’s only the air and the stereo. A stereo that brings melody to everything. That guides our steps and stems inspiration. The only thing that needs to be in here is me and my thoughts.

Still new to this room, this is where memories are being made. This is where I have poured my soul out and sweated my butt off trying to get something to look elegant and perfect. The mirrors across the whole front of the room show my every flaw. They point out my mistakes and show how my alignment is incorrect. Smudges of hand prints, and even foot prints, decorate the reflective sheets.

There’s so much beauty in this small space. There’s no judgment here. It should be respected and viewed as sacred because nothing can go wrong here. Even the biggest mistake can turn into a masterpiece, a work of art. What we do in this room can bring so much pleasure, happiness and joy. It can also bring depression, pain and sadness in ways that only the body can fully express without words.

This isn’t just a room or a space. This is a whole new world ready to be created or destroyed. This is a dance studio. A dark blue room that radiates inspirational and dedicated hard work, this is room 130.

He and She Stay With Me

She waits outside his building

Waits until someone else opens the door until she can slip in

The white concrete block walls seem sterile in the corridor she walks down

Finding the door to the stairs she argues in her head what she’s doing as she takes each step upward

Standing in front of the thick brown door

She softly raps on the hard surface with her clenched knuckles

Hopefully he won’t hear it

Just as she’s turning away he opens  the door and looks into the hall

Looks right at her with a question on his face

He leaves the door open and turns back inside to plop down on the blue couch that is in the middle of the living area

She follows him in staring at the back on his head

His dark hair and tall muscular build

She closes the door behind her

He looks up at her from the couch as she tries to muster up some type of sentence

Any cluster of words would do at this point

With tears in her eyes she softly says, “I can’t do this anymore.”

She puts her face in her hands and starts to sob

He gets up from the couch and lovingly takes her face in his hands

He lifts her chin up

Her eyes now staring up at him

In the softest whisper he says, “I know.”

He looks deep into her eyes and with her small face in his hands

All the built up passion and longing that he has he locks lips with her

Pulling away exhausted of breath he whispers one last thing, “I won’t let you go again, stay with me.”


Unfolding through open eyes, a globed

Explosion reproducing- brilliant

fetus enveloped in extending electric cloth.


Unfolding implosive origination, its interior

substance contorts, pulling, reeling

in to maintain osmosis as cluster

lights in the dark- stretching galaxies

streamline luminous textile.


The sun, smiles into unopened flesh in warm blushing orange flashes.

Harmonious light kicks inside, bouncing off etheric mists, aerial sieves

condense waves into droplets nourishing spring. Moist green skin

breathes beneath naked feet of a rounded mother-to-be.


The fetus, a crescent

moon, tucked into itself

reveals a silhouette thin light spilling

in the obscured pulsating black.


The womb holds the light of unopened eyes,

which melts through indivisible cells into melodic

nourishing stretching ligaments. Cocooned

inside red cotton, multiplying red pearls grow pounding in the viscous.


Born, flesh then beholds light, with open eyes, lit: shaded hazes, cold

yellows, and warm blues in etheric foams reflect the rotund sky. The

infinite unfolding proportional to the voyager’s crusade. A newborn

efforts movement, standing through his reflected.

Learned only within the invisible elusive memory. Unfolding glossy

firmament, the film of the eye, the opening of the mind, reveals an

unfolding dream. The mind imagines through translucent lenses.