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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
Unrequited Love...
You watch him from a distance
You love to see him smile
You wish one day he might be yours
If only for a while
You wish that you could tell him
To have the strength to say,
"I love you and I wish that you
Could feel the same one day!"
Your heart beats as he comes towards you
Only to walk on by
You try to tell yourself you don't love him
Try to believe your lie…
You wish, you dream, you hope, you pray
That you could be together
Maybe if you could make him see
That you two could last forever.....
Literature
stop ruining autumn.
listen:
fall makes me think of leaving and of apple cider, though i never liked apple cider.
but i liked the idea of it.
listen:
two years ago i met a boy as fragile as dead leaves who called me his little spring girl. (i'd always liked autumn the best.) he kissed the two soft dimples on the small of my back and told me helikedme helovedme hewantedme.
and oh, by the way, "everything good must come to an end."
listen:
on our one year anniversary we picked out two pumpkins and i drew elephants on them for us to carve. he cut his out so aggressively that it lost its shape.
lopped off tusks and broken trunks became just a large, jagged ho
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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
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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.