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Literature Text
sometimes I think I’m just a mess of badly drawn lines. I’m just scrawled veins beneath paper rough skin, I wear poorly sketched scars on my thighs [skin deep red pen lines] and even my smile is lop-sided- but he never seemed to notice.
my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I can’t see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does.
‘why do you love me?’
‘you make me happy.’
I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back with my fingertips? was it the filth on my knees or the way I named every bowing flower in my garden? maybe it was the way I sewed the stars to the navy sky and told him in a little, little voice-that I loved him.
either way he made my heart skip beats and bumps and bangs and he made me feel beautiful, a little thing I am most certainly not.
‘you are beautiful.’
oh he was such a lovely liar. he would lie about pretty things like my long eyelashes and my sugary breath in his ear and he would lie about loving me. pretty boys don’t love ugly girls, no no, never, not even on the television.
so I’d just cry into his shoulder and inhale him like he was a sample of expensive, designer perfume. one day he saw my eyes overflowing and all he could say was
‘oh, you look so pretty when you cry.’
I’m not pretty, I’m not pretty, I’m not pretty.
I waited for goodbye, I waited for it like you wait for nighttime to come and steal away the daylight, I thought it wouldn’t hurt.
then it did.
it was a pneumonic hurt, that lived in my lungs and hid my breathing under sobbing and loud lyrics. it was a hurt that began in my toes and shattered three ribs to get to breaking my heart. it was a hurt that screamed in my ears:
pretty boys break hearts.
i carved it in my leg- just so i wouldn't forget.
my skin [spread like thick icing over my skeleton] is a monotonous pattern of pores, a stretch of the world the sun never kissed. I can’t see the beauty in multitudes of freckles and chipped fingernails- but he does.
‘why do you love me?’
‘you make me happy.’
I never could figure out just how. was it my illegible love notes, or the tiny hearts I drew into his bare back with my fingertips? was it the filth on my knees or the way I named every bowing flower in my garden? maybe it was the way I sewed the stars to the navy sky and told him in a little, little voice-that I loved him.
either way he made my heart skip beats and bumps and bangs and he made me feel beautiful, a little thing I am most certainly not.
‘you are beautiful.’
oh he was such a lovely liar. he would lie about pretty things like my long eyelashes and my sugary breath in his ear and he would lie about loving me. pretty boys don’t love ugly girls, no no, never, not even on the television.
so I’d just cry into his shoulder and inhale him like he was a sample of expensive, designer perfume. one day he saw my eyes overflowing and all he could say was
‘oh, you look so pretty when you cry.’
I’m not pretty, I’m not pretty, I’m not pretty.
I waited for goodbye, I waited for it like you wait for nighttime to come and steal away the daylight, I thought it wouldn’t hurt.
then it did.
it was a pneumonic hurt, that lived in my lungs and hid my breathing under sobbing and loud lyrics. it was a hurt that began in my toes and shattered three ribs to get to breaking my heart. it was a hurt that screamed in my ears:
pretty boys break hearts.
i carved it in my leg- just so i wouldn't forget.
Literature
compulsive liar.
once i asked you your favourite
colour, and you said, "the brown
of your eyes," so i put in one green
contact and told everyone that i
came out of the womb as a factory
defect, half-priced, damaged goods.
-
sometimes i am from canada and
sometimes i am from england and
sometimes i am from spain.
i've carefully tempered my accents
and plotted out my stories with
yellow and purple coloured pencils
on index cards. my origin changes
like the seasons.
"why do you lie to everyone?" you
ask.
"why not?" i reply.
-
i wear nametags that read "alicia"
and "liana" and "samantha," because
i want to know how it feels to be
someon
Literature
broken hearts don't beat
sometimes, it's morning. and i've forgotten to brush my hair again. or how to tie my shoes or what my name sounds like. and that i don't believe in anything anymore. and that's when i realize that i'm losing little pieces of myself to you.
and the tip of my tongue is stained with the taste of stale paint from the renovating you've done with my mind. and for the next four hundred and seventy three and a half hours i'll be staring at the ceiling. since i'm waiting for your flavor to fade. or maybe i'm just waiting for you to come back to me. since my fingertips are losing their feeling. and the strands of my hairs are splitting. i'm aging in r
Literature
Is It Love?
If I hugged you,
would you never let go?
If I kissed you,
would you cherish that moment?
If I reached for your hand,
would you take mine gently?
If I needed a shoulder,
would you let me cry on yours?
If I needed to talk,
would you really listen?
If I needed to scream,
would you do it with me?
If I needed to go,
would you come with me?
If I fell for you,
would you catch me?
or just let me hit the pavement?
Suggested Collections
every piece of prose i write, has a piece of me embedded in it.
i dated a pretty boy once.
yes, pretty boys break hearts
and they are the worst kind
because they've had so much practice.
this isn't very special at all- but i guess some of yous wanted some more words as opposed to pixels from me.
but maybe that popular writing piece was a one off?
-i have an obsession with fingertips, self affliction, ribs, freckles and pale skin- don't ask me, haha.
i dated a pretty boy once.
yes, pretty boys break hearts
and they are the worst kind
because they've had so much practice.
this isn't very special at all- but i guess some of yous wanted some more words as opposed to pixels from me.
but maybe that popular writing piece was a one off?
-i have an obsession with fingertips, self affliction, ribs, freckles and pale skin- don't ask me, haha.
© 2008 - 2024 Pretty-As-A-Picture
Comments445
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this was so amazing, Im over her at lunch crying to this writing! <3 Its so heart felt and im glad you shared it, so we know we arnt alone.