Riley Goldstein
Storyteller | Writer | Visionary

Portrait I

This work captures the historical significance of communication through a literary exploration of the Holocaust, from the perspective of Anne Frank. This piece aims to showcase the impact of communication on humanity throughout history, particularly in the context of one of the most devastating events in modern times. 

Anne Frank

lives

young girl pressed

into time

staring at me

So I stare back.

it’s not easy

to beat a page

bloody and lined

with a soul

I think

I can hear her

final breaths

priceless and young

maybe

she would smile

innocent hands

tortured and raw

maybe

she and I would be friends

Anne

are you there

Child's Present

This poem highlights the nostalgic memories of children at school through the unique lens of Child's Present. This work prompts the viewer to explore the narrative through personal experiences, offering a captivating and immersive look into the world of childhood and education.

Rolling was what we did,

Down the dirty hill,

Not that we cared

Ignoring the teachers’ judging eyes

Hard and unforgiving

Like the bell halting recess.

Trudging inside,

We would wait til lunch;

Rushing sandwiches,

Aching stomachs,

We’d gulp down juice

And fly again, up our hill.

Twirling in twos,

Blending grass stains,

Not that we noticed.

Lush greenery brushed polos

Our khakis, skirts, shoes

Reminding us of the woozy rush

Blurring our brains

As we tumbled and spun

Into patches of cocoa soil.

The rocks, like marshmallows

Emerald leaves crinkle

Loose sticks and branches

Canopied by pine trees.

Back then, we didn’t run

Begging and cold

To go back inside

We relieve our bladders in ripe air

We inhaled adventure, born again

As if it was Christmas morning.

Haven

This work addresses the pressures females face to conform to unrealistic beauty standards. This project seeks to raise awareness of the expectations placed on women to meet unattainable ideals of appearance, and promote more realistic and inclusive representations of femininity.

Dear Mother,

My body was supposed to be home. People don’t comment on bodies the way that people do on homes. No one will criticize a hole in your wall or a half-finished renovation. A friend will not ask why there is a dent in the floor. A sibling will not look at the clothes scattered across your room with concern. My body is a home, and I have not treated it like one —but that is no person’s business except my own.

I do not decorate my home for someone else’s liking. I would not appreciate someone telling me what colour to paint the walls and which comforter will go with it. I have not purchased my white Ikea desk and bed-frame, wondering if anyone will say my room looks like a hospital room. I will never rearrange the furniture for the sake of impressing another. I do not live in this home to please you.

People don’t comment on homes the way that people do on bodies. No one will criticize a painting for being too large or a window for being too small. It is unkind to describe a home, a personal aspect of self, as a thing to improve. A friend will not say they hate the colour of your door. A sibling will not tell you that you should lose your curtains, because they are too bulky. My body is an art piece, and it bothers me when people impose on what they cannot change.

I do not wear sweaters to impress you, especially my faded graduation hoodie, years away from falling apart. I do not pick out rings with gemstones hoping you will like them. It is impossible to ask someone to make their home your choice. I have not dyed my hair red for your attention, and I never will. If I do not like the colour of your eyeshadow, I will not tell you. If the fresh paint on your walls looks pale, I will not tell you. Anything I think about your favourite shirt is not my business.

I would like to know why my body is seen as a construction site. It is not something for others to build upon. My home is mine to fix. I am not a sink with a leak I  am incapable of seeing. If you think I am unaware of a cracked tile, of a broken window —you are wrong. If you think I cannot tell how weathered I am, you are wrong. But I did not call you, crying and begging to come repair me. My body is my home. I do not exist for your comfort or peace of mind. If I don’t wear makeup or if I do does not affect you. What I wear should not touch your joy and love. My clothes have nothing to do with loyalty. The shape of my nose and curve of my hips does not change the person I am. People have forgotten how little appearance has to do with me.

If I am pale, skinny, and waning, I am suddenly sick. I am sick of myself and being told how to hold my body. I am sick of your uncanny attention to my weight. I do not appreciate your praises or your worries. My body is not your purpose or your mirror. I am not a reflection of your beauty or laziness. I am not your patient —if I was, I would have lost mine by now. My body is not waiting for you to accept it. I am home and you do not live here.

Late-Night Commute

Late Night Commute prompts readers to relate with the collective experience of commuting as a society. This work encourages empathy for humanity during stressful times, ultimately creating a more connected and compassionate society. Late Night Commute seeks to create a greater understanding and connection among individuals in urban environments.

The sun has already sunk into the horizon, leaving behind a pale residue on a pastel blue sky. Brick houses fade behind black oak trees and dimming greenery. The train is efficient this evening, shaking slightly on tracks, stopping and starting quickly. There’s something eating at my intestines. I worry about speed. The slow will follow, because it always does.

Grey walls whiz by, then the blackness of tunnels, and the neon flash of a stoplight. 

My quick-witted thoughts vanish, and my fingers pause around my pencil. Clusters of passengers jerk forward, tightening their grasps on metallic poles and nudging those next to them.

We apologize for the delay

I am too absorbed in my own mind to allow prolonged distractions. The elderly woman next to me attempts to decipher the diagrams and lettering in my notebook. I continue to fill page after page, unfazed by the train’s abrupt stops and harassing bumps. A crackhead with matted hair and raggedy, over-sized clothing stutters down the aisle.

“Spare some change?” he grumbles lowly.

The maroon seats are full of people, yet no one offers as much as an assuming glance. I fish through my sweater pockets for a dollar. The homeless man’s eyes look like flashing bulbs as he smiles in thanks. Passengers sit quietly, gazing into space or listening to music with earphones in. They aren’t fooling me. It is Friday, after all. I want to go home too.

We apologize for the delay

The overhead lights dim slightly. The elderly woman has fallen asleep, head lolling back against the red velvet of her seat. Others are starting to slouch. I hunch over my notebook and resume scrawling a half-completed story. The train’s silver walls shake but I pay no mind.

A Love Note

This work explores the impact of toxic romance on the human experience. A Love Note dives into the lasting effects of toxic relationships on our physical, emotional, cognitive, and neurological well-being. 

I became consumed by

something impossibly beautiful,

A chemical compound of

Tar and toxicity. 

Warm light, a rose and you

Your blooming, dew-drop face. 

Pace yourself, my love,

We have forever

Until we turn into bones,

Ash and human waste. 

I left a flower 

On your pillow

Where we’d watch the sun

And admire the stars

They rise and fall

With your empty breaths. 

**

Happy anniversary, 

My love, buried beneath

A green bed

You feel warm and soft

In the graveyard. 

I am consumed by

Maggots and flies,

With my hand reaching

Towards yours

For eternity. 

Second Thoughts

This work delves into the complexities of divorce and the process of separation in a relationship. Titled "Second Thoughts," this poem offers a thoughtful exploration of the emotional and logistical aspects of navigating a divorce, providing valuable insights for those facing similar challenges. 

One man and one woman mourn 

For their lost love, 

trying to decipher;
the scribbles, 
the tears, 
the disconnects, 
the moment when
things became too much. 

He had become so hard, 
bleak eyes and 
a stony face, 
troubled, 
passing by her like 
a dark ship 
that was sinking. 

His stoic confusion provided no relief 
from hopelessness, 
the strong front a shield 
from draining passion. 

She knew better, 
had grieved long before, 
with no cry left in her 
but a weary expression. 

Still hoping for a miracle 
to save the marriage 
and the far-away man.

One woman and one man 
isolated in financial woes, 
emotional and psychological, 
over-bearing clutter, 
became too rushed sketches, 
colourless people 
on a worn page. 

Origami

This work delves into the impact of love on individuals and how it leads to conformity with unrealistic relationship standards. This poem aims to shed light on the unnatural experience that often accompanies the quest for love and the pressure to conform.

You fold me
Over and over
Until I bend, 
Tired and used
Over and over,
Like a tissue.
I lost myself
Over and over
Shaped by you,
Your idle hands.

You needed someone
To play with. 
I needed you
To admire me
Like I was art
And you, the artist. 

You throw me
Out like nothing,
Like I am sick,
And I am,
You make me sick. 
I am torn in half
By your desire
To create
A paper woman. 

You turn me
Over and over, 
Inside out
With diagonal folds. 
I am a crane
Held together by
Your expert hands. 

You fold me
Over and over,
Into boxes
And paper planes
And I bend
Over and over,
Inside your hands. 

Always

This poem incorporates nature motifs to resonate with the audience and tap into humanity's feminine side. This work serves as a love note to mothers everywhere, celebrating the nurturing and life-giving qualities of motherhood.

I admire flowers 

for their guardianship, 

like a maternal instinct 

to protect the grass 

surrounding them. 

Flowers are selfless; 

to pollen-charged bees, 

to starving insects, 

Pure through nurture. 

I must remember my mother; 

when someone buys me flowers, 

when crossing a garden, 

and as the searing 

of a splinter in my thumb. 

My mother, always there 

to release my tears 

with a pair of tweezers. 

My mother, the rose. 

Poison

This work, titled Poison, delves into the themes of addiction and romance, shining a light on the devastating aspects of love in society. This piece showcases the complex and toxic nature of relationship, addressing an impact on individuals within communities. 

I want you

More than I’ve wanted anyone else, 

You beautiful soul,

Reach for me, 

Come for me, 

Pay for my company,

I want you to love me,

The way I make you

Feel like the sun

Feel me in your lungs,

Feel me soothe your cries. 

I want you 

To make me yours,

Your everyday light, 

On a rainy Sunday morning.

I want your heart, 

For it to quiver into coal,

For you to lie with me,

For you to want me.

And you do, and don’t stop. 

I don’t want

Your scaly skin, 

The way you are stripped away

Like paper, a dry desert.

I don’t want you

Sucked away, a vortex

Of a decaying organ. 

I don’t want you,

Your selfishness, your fear

I don’t want you

Or what you have become

By choosing me. 

I don’t want you, weakened

And lying alone forgotten, 

And you don’t leave me

And you don’t want to.

Survival

This work aims to resonate with the viewer as they learn about the challenges that come alongside growing up, focusing on survival and the journey to overcome obstacles. Survival hopes to gain a deeper understanding of the universal experiences of growth and resilience.

How do I do this

I don’t know

What to say

Just talk!

And just being

Is a hard thing to be

If there was a book

To guide us all

I’d read it 

A million times

And it wouldn’t be enough

But it would be

An easy way of living

No thanks

I’d rather stay lost

With no map to find me

And I’m not a checkpoint

I’m a destination

No one seems to arrive at

When I open my mouth

To speak words made out

With invisible ink.

Life Sentence

This poem captures the unique experience of being a writer struggling with abandonment issues, allowing viewers to connect with the emotional and personal journey of the creative process.

Words are a cage

I cannot tell if they are the door

Or the bars

But I know that I am the dove

Wanting to fly.

I wonder 

what will be set free

When I find my way outside

I wonder if

And I fear what if

Nothing was ever locked

In the first place. 

I remember that story

Of the boy with the feathers,

No one can return me

To my original state of being,

Because I’m an empty bag

And I find myself lying everywhere

And nowhere at the same time.

To be honest, 

I’m not sure if

And I fear what if

I was never a whole human

In the first place

And 

Maybe I can’t be. 

Words are a cage

I cannot fly out of. 

I’m too broken

To fix the wing that I snapped,

A clean-cut in half,

But I know I can fly

Off the handle

As graceful as words

Flying out of my hands

And people flying away

And 

Maybe I’m not the dove after all. 

Perfection

This piece shows viewers the intricacies of human experience and pressure to conform to societal standards of beauty through the protagonist. 

I

My mother always watches me in the mirror; my practiced movements, the way my lips become pressed together when I fouteé, the gradual acceleration of each turn, and if I am quick enough. I tell myself that she likes coming to my practices, that she wakes up at dawn to drive me to class —all because she cares. 

I am the only dancer in the studio today. It’s Madame Malika’s private barre session every Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday. That never changes, much like my instructor. She dresses in tight black clothes, always wearing a bun that makes her hair seem like a neat bundle of onyx wires. I prefer silk and its softness. 

I don’t like tying my hair up, exposing my face that my mother calls bony and sick looking. She used to say I was beautiful. That was before I dropped out of high school to pursue dance. Funny, she used to say it was in my nature to twirl, to be flexible, and graceful.  

“Vanka!” She snaps. I halt halfway through a grand plieé. My mother narrows her eyes at me, tsks tsks with her sharp tongue, and I bend my knees further. Sweat has collected on my left hand as it struggles to grip the bar.

My mother shakes her head, a subtle movement that only I could notice. At the end of the session and its fourteen hours, I feel restless.

“You will do great things,” Madame Malika nods. 

An already made porridge is waiting in the car and it is heavy and cold in my mouth, and I say nothing. The drive is quiet and I try to admire the stars as the only light in the sky —but I cannot see them tonight.

II

There are trios of flowers being thrown across the stage. The spotlights remind me of an overbearing sun in the desert, resisting the influence of the moon. Audience members are chorusing in applause and each one of them stands from velvet chairs. Immediately, I find my mother conversing with her seat neighbour and a trace of a smile is on her thin lips. Yet, she does not look at me; not when I take a final bow, not when a final white rose finds its way in front of my polished pointe shoes, not when the impressive curtain closes. 

The girls in my company chatter while removing blush and dark-red lipstick. I shift out of my tutu slowly and avoid my reflection in the backstage mirror. The room turns on its axis and I remember the porridge in my ballet bag, and I throw it and its plastic container in a trash bin. 

“Vanka, you were gorgeous!”

“Congrats, girl,”

 I return compliments and hugs. The director of the company is shining outside, standing with a poised and regal posture as she bids us goodbye. I notice there is no card or bouquet on my collection table.

The ride to the penthouse that my mother and I share is empty. Streets are packed with cars exiting the show’s national debut. I afforded us a sleeker model of an Audi A6 and a two-tier home right on the Champs Elysées. My mother comments on a slight hesitation before my turn into a pas de chat, and her silver hair catches the glow of the moon. 

III

I still enjoy attending Madame Maliki’s private sessions, although she claims I do not need them anymore. I wind my hair into an auburn knot and exit the lobby, enclosed in four even panes of glass. My driver greets me outside like always. We ease through Paris’s vacant roads.  

“You look ill, Mademoiselle,” he says. 

I remind him I have not had breakfast yet and that 5:30 AM is much too early for a croissant and a café. There is a box of cold porridge in my bag, anyways. My private studio does not change; not its towering mirrors, not the wooden bench parallel to its entryway, not the barres on either side of its walls. 

I start my stretches and my turns. I bend my knees to the floor in a low plié, and I glance at a figure in the mirror. With arms like wings and yellow eyes, I see my arms extended downwards and a lunar complexion. Someone turns a light on when the day wanes into evening. A portrait of my mother is watching me; my precise movements, the way my lips tense into a singular line when I pirouette, the effortless pacing of every turn, and if I am good enough.