deviant art

Deviant Login
Buy ArtBuy T-Shirts & Gear Buy adCast Buy Premium Membership
Shop		  Join deviantART for FREE Take the Tour
[x]
things i should have told him.she doesn't believe him when he tell her she's beautiful.
all she is is a mess of tired eyes and shaking hands knotted together in her lap. she is tangled hair that he can't put his fingers through and scarred knees he can't fix. she is scared and crying and she wants to be able to tell him but she won't. she is tear stained blankets and endless, sleepless nights. she is ugly and she hates who she has become.
-
she can't admit she's writing about herself. she writes in third person because it makes her believe its someone else that stares at their wall, trying to steady their breath at night. she writes lies because she thinks maybe if it
ask the butterfliesdear girl,

i have a brick house with old wooden floors. vines grow up onto my porch and i sit, thinking i can watch them grow. i have white stone paths that lead to my front door, made of old, heavy wood. the cherry blossom in my backyard sometimes reminds me of you - your bright eyes and gorgeous skin. sometimes their flowers are scattered across the yard; flecks of pink and white on wet green grass, just like your mind - scarttered but still more beautiful than ever.
the doors in my house creak when opened, and i don't own a comfy couch or matress. my porcelain teapot is covered in small, blue floral patterns and flowers grow on my window
boy who belongs to the sunhe asked me once, 'are you afraid to die?' and i didn't know how to answer. i'd like to say that i am; that it scares me more than anything else, but i can't help but think that the world becomes a better place when you die. i told him i wasn't and he stared out the window at the dark street. resting his head against the slightly-frosted window pane, he breathed 'neither am i'
-
we're all just dying, though, don't you think? we're not living, we're dying. every day is another day we won't ever get back and another day that we won't ever remember. at least we're dying together, though. at least we can say that we've spent time watching our l
learn to smilethere’s this man whose eyes bleed this beautiful, sad blue. he hides it though, behind dark crops of hair and thick eyelashes. sometimes i find myself wanting to count the folds and wrinkles that hide his cheekbones and teach him how to smile. there’s times i pass him and he’ll be pressing a cup of coffee gently to his lips and it makes me happy. i don’t know why but i think it shows me he’s alive. he’s heart’s beating and he’s feeling something, anything.
-
he writes postcards to himself from his capital city to make sure he never forgets where he is. he posts them to himself and wonders why he does
two weeksmadeline wants to paint a picture on a canvas.
she wants to build a tree house and wants her netball team to win the final.
meet someone new every day. she wants to realise pink's an ugly colour and throw out all of her clothes.
-
she wants to make her first phone call to a boy and hold his hand and go to his house. she wants to get butterflies and wants to share a hot chocolate with him. she wants to have her first kiss.
-
she wants to listen to music until its all she can hear. she wants to fail tests and say fuck studying, she wants to get a detention and wants to tell her parents that she handed in the excursion money, but keep it
secrets in your pockets - chey, you,
you're that one with the secrets in your pockets and the penny-copper eyes that i try to avoid. in homeroom, i asked for a show of hands for who else thought you were beautiful [it was unanimous]. and you say you don't know? you say you don't understand? just let me tell you what goes on in my head:
the crack between my lips is painted with vanilla cherry but is chipped to pieces and needs yours pressed against them to come back to life. my inbox is lonely and missing your texts. my eardrum misses your voice, my eyes miss your face breathing oh so close to mine in ijusthadthekissofmylife gasps. and i'm just tired of missed chance
globe with an empty skydear thunderstorm clouds:
you're just the cold air that sifts through my fingertips
and please, give me my love back
give him back to me
--

last night I felt the beach; the s a n d---;
drifting, falling t h r o u g h my fingers
but they weren't like the clouds, or you
because they did not disappear;
they don't hide
like you always do.

[maybe i'll find you, if i dig deep enough
or maybe I'll just fall into my own hole and suffocate]

our sandcastles and hopes are washing away.

and my dear seagulls:
open your eyes and forget all the whispering seashells and the ocean's invisible dulcet notes
hear these querulous, brusque cars;
coughing coloursi used to think alexis was beautiful in every way, back when we went to school. now though, i tell myself that he's beautiful in an artistic sort of way. the sort of artistic that makes you picture everything as a black-and-white photo and the kind of artistic that sparks words somewhere inside you. he calls himself a movie-maker now, but his friends call him alex. i like to call him a story.
-
when we were maybe fifteen, alexis told me he wanted to go to the beach. it was cold, dark and raining outside, but i agreed anyway. i walked through the late night light and met him at his front gate. we held hands, shaking and biting our lips. we w
when it rains - collabi thought of you the other day with paper cuts on your fingers. it doesn't make much sense, but it made me feel like you were made of more than sunlight streaming in through broken windows. it made me feel like you were human, and my irregular heartbeat was consistent in your world.

when i thought of you, you were wishing on fallen daises and writing letters to the wind. you always loved wind, i remember. i don’t like the wind now, it always reminds me of the way it would shake our window panes at night and i would crawl up next to you and fall asleep on your shoulder.

i felt safe with my head tucked beneath yours and you used to run y
maybe in the morning,-

she remembers watching the sunset from her father shoulders and thinking that it was as if the sun was dying. as if its long life was slowly falling away behind the skyline and that it sprayed colors across the ever-darkening sky to remind people that death is a beautiful thing. that in the morning, a new sun would rise and everything will be bright.
when she dies, she wants to go out like a sunrise. she wants people to watch in awe as she changes everything just one last time and makes death beautiful.

-

she's older now, and she imagines that death is like being awake at night; the comforting silence and the dark that accompanies it. f
bird with a broken wing.-

it was late. the sea on the horizon looked like the end of the world and everyone was telling us to grow up when really all we wanted to do was dream. all we've ever wanted to do is dream.
the water was dark at the bottom of the rock bank where we sat; calm and still, smelling heavily of seaweed and reminding me of summers that i spent singing on rocks as i watched the waves at the beach.
the boys around me picked up small rocks and threw them as far as they could. i lleant back, looked up at the sky and asked them why they had to ruin it.
they said they had to know they could make an impact on something. that they could change someth
illusionists and wanderers.she sets her cold cup of coffee down and leans back into the beige couch that smells of rain and spilt wine and frames the blank wall of her loungeroom. she lets the noise from the television wash over her as she breathes slowly and heavily, trying not to take anything in.
-
she lays out her clothes for the night; setting them down on the edge of her lonely double bed, that reminds her of  men and lonliness. she doesn't mind too much; the smell keeps her company on week nights when nothing else will. she falls from her weak knees onto the bed and as she lays back into the musty blankets she wonders why she even bothers any more.
-
she pu
the opposite of music.she wakes up on a hotel bed and looks oh so defeated.
she can't remeber anything but kissing herself to sleep.
'please can someone remind me what sorry means'

she eats cold vegetables for dinner and drinks cold tea for breakfast.
but she knows it'll be okay one day, because things never stay the same
don't cry, don't scream.
be strong.

just a precious little life, she is.
just a precious little life whose hanging on with everything she's got.

she remembers the first time she told him she loved him when she didn't, nd it eats away at her heart and she wishes she wasn't so cowardly.
she dances alone to the opposite of music as she re
requiem to remember the roses.there are these roses and they grow outside my window in the spring;
in the summer the sun burns their petals and they die.

i curl into a ball on my bed on the hottest summer days and sing to them -
its like my requiem for the roses.
--

you're a gin soaked barroom queen, spilling your thoughts to a stranger. you've abandoned reason and hope and you've forgotten love and dreaming.
all thats left in your alcoholic little mind are tales of better years and ability to hum yourself to sleep - even on the loneliest of nights.

you're close to a tragedy, but you're breathing and you've still got a few smiles left behind that sore face of your
at least we'll have storiesi woke up alone in the new year, in a bathtub full of cold, grey water.
there was a glass half full of whiskey and a photo of you next to me on the ground. my lips tasted like they were bleeding and my eyes were heavy and sore.
dark hair; damp and dirty clung like a leech to my pale skin, and only when i moved to pull it away did i notice how numbingly cold it was in the water.

i thought of how i dreamt that tonight i'd fall asleep in your arms as you sung beatles songs to me. i'd lay there, happy, thinking about how mysterious and dangerous and perfect you are and about how our bloodshot eyes matched each other perfectly. but you're real
Browse More Like This
Download File
HTML, 2.3 KB more ▶

More from *rachel-rhapsody

coughing coloursi used to think alexis was beautiful in every way, back when we went to school. now though, i tell myself that he's beautiful in an artistic sort of way. the sort of artistic that makes you picture everything as a black-and-white photo and the kind of artistic that sparks words somewhere inside you. he calls himself a movie-maker now, but his friends call him alex. i like to call him a story.
-
when we were maybe fifteen, alexis told me he wanted to go to the beach. it was cold, dark and raining outside, but i agreed anyway. i walked through the late night light and met him at his front gate. we held hands, shaking and biting our lips. we w
11.41sometimes she wishes she could say sorry, too.
but she hates lying and she'd rather spend nights crying into her pillow
but don't worry, it's so much easier for you that way.

sometimes she wishes people could understand.
but losing yourself in early hours of the morning is impossible, isn't it?
its okay, you'll never know what it feels like to fucking forget who you are.

sometimes she wishes she could mean something she says.
but she's never fine and it won't be okay. in the end it'll all just be the same.
its alright though, you're not the one who doesn't feel anything at all.

sometimes she wishes she could just mean something.
to
boy who belongs to the sunhe asked me once, 'are you afraid to die?' and i didn't know how to answer. i'd like to say that i am; that it scares me more than anything else, but i can't help but think that the world becomes a better place when you die. i told him i wasn't and he stared out the window at the dark street. resting his head against the slightly-frosted window pane, he breathed 'neither am i'
-
we're all just dying, though, don't you think? we're not living, we're dying. every day is another day we won't ever get back and another day that we won't ever remember. at least we're dying together, though. at least we can say that we've spent time watching our l
secrets in your pockets - chey, you,
you're that one with the secrets in your pockets and the penny-copper eyes that i try to avoid. in homeroom, i asked for a show of hands for who else thought you were beautiful [it was unanimous]. and you say you don't know? you say you don't understand? just let me tell you what goes on in my head:
the crack between my lips is painted with vanilla cherry but is chipped to pieces and needs yours pressed against them to come back to life. my inbox is lonely and missing your texts. my eardrum misses your voice, my eyes miss your face breathing oh so close to mine in ijusthadthekissofmylife gasps. and i'm just tired of missed chance
learn to smilethere’s this man whose eyes bleed this beautiful, sad blue. he hides it though, behind dark crops of hair and thick eyelashes. sometimes i find myself wanting to count the folds and wrinkles that hide his cheekbones and teach him how to smile. there’s times i pass him and he’ll be pressing a cup of coffee gently to his lips and it makes me happy. i don’t know why but i think it shows me he’s alive. he’s heart’s beating and he’s feeling something, anything.
-
he writes postcards to himself from his capital city to make sure he never forgets where he is. he posts them to himself and wonders why he does
things i should have told him.she doesn't believe him when he tell her she's beautiful.
all she is is a mess of tired eyes and shaking hands knotted together in her lap. she is tangled hair that he can't put his fingers through and scarred knees he can't fix. she is scared and crying and she wants to be able to tell him but she won't. she is tear stained blankets and endless, sleepless nights. she is ugly and she hates who she has become.
-
she can't admit she's writing about herself. she writes in third person because it makes her believe its someone else that stares at their wall, trying to steady their breath at night. she writes lies because she thinks maybe if it

Featured in Groups:

Not currently featured in any groups.

Details

October 7, 2009
2.3 KB
Link
Thumb

Statistics

Comments: 45
Favourites: 75 [who?]


Views: 1,693 (0 today)
Downloads: 11 (0 today)
[x]

autumn leaves.

:iconrachel-rhapsody:

there's this girl i don't know but i know she has the prettiest eyelashes and the most amazing coloured eyes. i might not know her, but i do know though, is that she has the prettiest words and she really deserves to understand how she makes people feel. she makes me want to fill her bedroom with dry autumn leaves so she can break their spines on her birthday and makes me want to fill her mind with other people's feelings. the feelings that they get when they read about monarch butterflies and masochism. the feeling that they get when it's as if nothing else matters but the words she's scribbled down and the feeling as if they could live in her pretty words and stories.
-
there's this girl i wish i knew so i could make her realise that she's beautiful. i want to make her realise that good things do last; like her. i'd help her empty the ocean with a teacup. i'd wonder where we'd put it, but i help her none the less. i'd show her that even the impossible is possible if you try hard enough.
-
there's this girl i want to immerse myself in who is afraid of even numbers. if i knew her, i'd teach her that the 2nd, 4th, 6th and 8th of the month were just as beautiful as the rest and that they were just numbers. just numbers; nothing to be afraid of. i'd teach her that she doesn't need to tell brian anything, because she's amazing just the way she is. this girl, i would let her know that i shake in summer too. that i wish i could have my old friendship bracelets back, too. that any boy who asks you to give up writing doesn't know the meaning of love.
-
there's this girl and she writes her stories backwards. you know, maybe writing stories backwards is better, i would tell her, because then there isn't a shock or a heart-breaking end sentence that would spark tears. maybe its better that we read everything backwards, because then we'll understand less as the pages continue turning. and they've always said ignorance is bliss, haven't they?
-
there's this girl who i'd like to call a poet and i think i would to teach her the point in living in you can't fly.

if only i knew how.
:iconrachel-rhapsody:
for :iconestallidos:
it was her birthday a while ago and i realised she's more beautiful that she knows. happy ( late ) birthday if you ever read this.
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
:iconrockbaby67:
Critique by ~rockbaby67 Oct 7, 2009, 12:11:32 PM
I really like this. I like the way it is set up. Repetition is usually very powerful, but at the end of this I feel like the repetition is taking away from the meaning. I think that perhaps grouping them in twos and using the repetition would be better. I think that even by taking the last line and just shortening it to: i'd teach her the point in living if you can't fly. I absolutely love the last single line, so if you did shorten the last "there's a poet" line I would keep it with the above grouping.
What do you think?
Fair Unfair
The Artist thought this was FAIR
7 out of 7 deviants thought this was fair.
1 Reply

The Artist has requested Critique on this Artwork

Please sign up or login to post a critique.

:icontongue-tie:
~tongue-tie Aug 23, 2010
maybe its better that we read everything backwards, because then we'll understand less as the pages continue turning.


yessss
Reply
:iconrachel-rhapsody:
*rachel-rhapsody Aug 24, 2010
thank you so much :heart:
Reply
:iconelevencogs-twowheels:
!ElevenCogs-TwoWheels Aug 19, 2010   Photographer
So i saw this piece on someones favourites... i can see why it was it there :D
I guess i like this because... "there's this girl i wish i knew..."
Reply
:iconrachel-rhapsody:
*rachel-rhapsody Aug 20, 2010
thank you :heart:
Reply
:icontwilightjunkie94:
~Twilightjunkie94 Nov 7, 2009
she is such an amazing writer. man i love her haha. good job on this piece! it was beautiful.
Reply
:iconrachel-rhapsody:
*rachel-rhapsody Nov 7, 2009
thank you :hug:
Reply
:iconmorganbee:
~MorganBee Nov 4, 2009
i like it, i love the even number thing.
Reply
:iconrachel-rhapsody:
*rachel-rhapsody Nov 4, 2009
thank you :heart:
Reply
:iconmala-chan:
~Mala-chan Oct 12, 2009
I've been here, too.

My "she" doesn't know how beautiful and wonderful and intelligent and creative she is, either. She just thinks she's trash, a waste of space.

and i'd teach her the point in living if you can't fly

if only i knew how.
Reply
:iconrachel-rhapsody:
*rachel-rhapsody Oct 13, 2009
Yeah. Im sorry you've been there, but glad to here you're not there anymore :heart:
Reply
Add a Comment:
 
Preview   Add Comment
©2013 deviantART. All rights reserved
About Us | Contact Us | Developers | Careers | Site Tour | Help & FAQ Advertise | Premium Membership Etiquette | Privacy Policy | Terms of Service | Copyright Policy