• Our hearts were worn, rubble surrounding us on all sides like walls we could never escape from. We could hear them, the cranes, the jack hammer, the growling and groaning of demolition, forcing us to face the reality that nothing would be the same again. They weren’t here to build, but to destroy.

  • It’s this beautiful, wretched place, full of magic and mysteries where there should be glorious sunshine through planes of vaulted glass. He is here beside my like a golden king, and I pale in his presence. I find myself hoping that this is permanent, that this is something more than what I had always thought I would have. But it’s too perfect,…[Read more]

  • A beautiful face set in curlicues of granite and sandstone that has been washed and abused by time and hard hands. They met on the canals, pretending that the water wasn’t black and dirty. She was supposed to save his soul. Today, you can still see their bones, pressed like fossils into the walls. It’s something like history.

  • She was a dryad, flitting through the woods with bare feet, her toes curling into the soft mud. People didn’t notice her. She was plain-faced with long bark-coloured hair. They didn’t see her, but she saw them. She witnessed everything. Everything she saw, hiding behind her eyes, until one day she him, and she wanted to gouge them out. Beauty…[Read more]

  • Rosalia Vanderbilt commented on the post, sentiment 5 years ago

    I’ve always looked at the world in a peculiar way. It seems that as I age the divide between us and them grows ever larger. Walking amongst us I can’t find happiness, joy, some mutual influence towards goodness. With them, however, there is an inalienable sentiment, some glorious grace that I cannot define in human terms. But alas, the divide…[Read more]

  • Rosalia Vanderbilt commented on the post, harm 5 years ago

    I’ve always looked at him and seen this Godly connection burning in his verdantly blue eyes. It’s something I can’t explain. I used to joke around “You have serial killer eyes, haha”. He thought it was just a joke. It really wasn’t. Couldn’t he see how he was harming me? His eyes were murderers and his hands extortionists. They were killing…[Read more]

  • Rosalia Vanderbilt commented on the post, trooper 5 years ago

    You are the sun in the sky, and I am nothing but the earth so trodden beneath your feet. Your footsteps look so light, from the outside. But I feel their weight, their violence, their desolation. You were always the bright star, the one who walked on water and smiled without reason. I was never like that. All I can remember is looking at you…[Read more]

  • Rosalia Vanderbilt commented on the post, tracking 5 years ago

    This is her requiem for me, the snow in my hair, lips red from being bitten to hard. There are footsteps in the snow. I tried to walk like a phantom, but something in my soul was heavy, weighting me down all the way to the soles of my winter boots. My pain is etched into the snow, in large footsteps that are bigger than my feet actually are.…[Read more]

  • Rosalia Vanderbilt commented on the post, beforehand 5 years ago

    Violence came naturally to them. So it was obvious that they wouldn’t think of the consequences, that they wouldn’t parcel out the blame beforehand. Of course not. Hindsight is 20/20. They run in guns blazing and at the end of the day (it’s only then) that they look back and see exactly what they’ve done. Someone always ends up dead.…[Read more]

  • She takes you down to the river, her small hands cupped to her mouth as she breathes in the water. It’s funny, because when she breathes, you can feel the water rush through your limbs, rising to settle in your gaunt cheeks. As you watch her perform this universal, impersonal task, you try to put your finger on why she’s beautiful. You realize…[Read more]

  • He is a wraith, floating with deathly grim in his brimstone eyes. He lives within each man on this earth, and despite his ferocity there is a deep, primal beauty cut into the hard, granite lines of his accursed face. Ombre. Shadow. Those who live in the shadows eventually become shadows themselves.

  • He, so sharp and hard and virile, vicious edges of sharpened brutality. He stared from beneath the wind and saw in her eyes the child he never had, the love he could never dream of. How she became so many things to him in that moment was something he had no way to understand. But he had no knowledge of his heart, and only she, from the outside…[Read more]

  • Let’s not pretend that you’ve thought this through. Impulsion, compulsion — who can tell the difference anymore? The only thing that matters is the outcome, this terrifying puppet show that you can’t control. And the best part? You’re the star. You’ve always been the star. An unwitting, barely breathing, hardly sentient star shining with a…[Read more]

  • Her heart was on her sleeve, so it made sense that it became very battered and bruised over time. It was easy to think of it as an entity, something real that she could show people — some part of her that actually made sense. It was only later that she saw what it was, staring hard with that clinical detachment only truly broken people can…[Read more]

  • There was a time, long ago, when the sun was green and the plants blue. The water was yellow and everything was so much more beautiful. Strange things often are. Sometimes I look outside and I wonder at the alternate shapes that I see, the people and places and things that could have, should have been. Do I need to be here — do I deserve to…[Read more]

  • Her heart was on her sleeve, this pursuit of fire in her veins. She used to know what it felt like. Her limbs could remember the rush and her eyes saw what nobody else had ever seen. She begged them to follow, to chase her to the ends of the Earth. But they looked into her eyes, and they saw what what nobody else had ever seen in them.…[Read more]

  • You are unholy, your corners sharp and your edges mean. I’ve always been soft, just barely fitting into this cutthroat world. But you — you are everything they expect you to be yet not what they want. You’re not what anyone wants — don’t you see? They don’t want something caustic and hard and geometric. Perfection is a curse, you know. You…[Read more]

  • Her beauty is like the violence of the green green wood, verdant and sharp and so, so dark. The planes of her face are harshness, cut glass, fire-burned arrow tips protruding from her cheeks. She isn’t lovely, not really — it’s more the fact that she knows she’ll never be anything more than this and doesn’t care. There is perseverance and…[Read more]

  • She held the world in the palm of her tiny hands. His world, full of violence and hate and strife as it was. It should have been incomprehensible — this tiny, delicate, innocent thing being rocked in that yellowed lace crib by this mountain of a man with violent tattoos and scars like little earthquakes on his face. And yet. And yet….

  • Let’s pretend that we’re not broken and hated and ruined. Let’s pretend that the sun will still shine on our black eyes and tousled hair, after today. Today. Today is when the tide comes in and all the clams are washed away, bleeding into the sand as their small eyes roll back in their shells. (Eyes that do not exist). She’s a mess, here,…[Read more]