Comments Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt

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He was shocked at her ravaged face, completely devoid of product or life or even a shred of happiness. She used to be different — red and gold and vibrance that reached out and caught anyone who looked at her, even from an angle. But now, the glamour was gone, replaced by purples and blues of healing bruises. And with sadness, he remembered what she was like, before him.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 07.31.2019 @ 5:56 pm


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.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.07.2018 @ 4:39 pm


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, too much.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 11.14.2016 @ 2:17 pm


It felt like a tugging, a bobbing, a harrowing vicious love that had slipped through and cracked wide open. Brilliant and tragic, she lived for something that existed only to kill her. She loved it anyway. She loved him anyway. It killed her as surely as cancer, but she smiled in her grave, so it was worth it. To the last.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 08.24.2015 @ 9:56 pm


To cry or not cry when your world meets your grave is the questions she asks. He is there on the periphery, a shadow, a light, a groom with a scythe in his hand. He is real, because she can feel his breath on her neck and see his face every time she looks at her scars in the mirror. But maybe his breath is just wind, and her scars aren’t really there at all.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 08.04.2015 @ 8:20 pm


A heart like blown glass and a gaze that shattered every last vestige of his hope was the only thing he could remember about that night. She taught him things he didn’t know he didn’t know. He felt like a cad, looking back, because all he could see were those big brown eyes and the innocence she was trying to hide. Innocence he used and discarded and said, “stay hidden, I have no use for that.”

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 05.03.2015 @ 7:55 am


I miss the gritty texture of his skin. The hard stones that were his eyes and the palms of his hands, scraping away like sandpaper on velvet. We miss and love the things that hurt us. He carved out a soul for me in a place that was soft and gooey and unused to pressure. It hurt — of course it did. But his knife became an extension of him just as I was the product.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 02.10.2015 @ 4:25 am


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.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.04.2014 @ 3:20 am


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 does that I guess.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 03.05.2014 @ 9:03 pm


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 remains. They are them, we are us, and therein lies my downfall.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 01.18.2014 @ 8:43 pm


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 me. Still are, even after all these years. CR.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 01.15.2014 @ 8:31 pm


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 and thinking, “Wow, things must come so easily to him.”

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 01.12.2014 @ 9:25 pm


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. And yet, there they are, begging to be followed, pursued, tracked.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 01.06.2014 @ 8:16 pm


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. Usually young, small, unprotected. It starts out as an accident. It becomes a way of life.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.24.2013 @ 9:16 pm


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 you’re not really sure. But she’s there, all of her, all the time. Her entire being poured into everything she does.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.14.2013 @ 12:05 pm


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.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.13.2013 @ 7:18 pm


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 looking in, could see what he tried so hard to hide. In the end, it made all the difference.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.11.2013 @ 7:39 pm


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 black light that is undeniable yet intrinsically ugly. You think too much and too hard and it carves lines into your skin. So make it up. Go with the flow. Maybe you’ll be beautiful then.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.10.2013 @ 8:50 pm


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 really achieve. She realized, in the end, that is was nothing more than a mechanism. She didn’t mind though. This made it easier not to care when her heart was shattered into a million pieces.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.09.2013 @ 6:01 pm


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 be alive? I am here, thinking about stressful things like toenails and fairytales, and meanwhile? Someone is fighting for their soul.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.08.2013 @ 8:33 pm


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. Nothing. So they turned away, and she was lost.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.07.2013 @ 8:06 am


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 are the most beautiful thing in the world, your triangular corners casting everything around you in shadow.

You are doomed.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 12.04.2013 @ 6:30 pm


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 strength in her hard, wooden face, and you cannot help but love her for it. (She smells like pine needles).

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 10.08.2013 @ 7:34 pm


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….

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 09.28.2013 @ 3:10 pm


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, there, everywhere. She’d always wanted that straight, glossy hair. Hah.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 09.24.2013 @ 3:14 pm


You were the one for me, from the very beginning. The start of this line of failure that I know will end in greatness. A hop, skip, and a jump away. That scratchy transmission that comes over the tidal glory of the Pacific Ocean, a lighthouse flashing across foamy water. You’re my hero.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 09.21.2013 @ 6:29 pm


Hard, cold, unyielding. Ice in his veins, cool blue and crow bar eyelashes. He’s angry, in his oval office, back straight in that military style that speaks volumes. Ask him, and he’ll tell you that he loves this, that this is his life. Look beneath, and you see the sadness, the anger, the fear. He nods and says no at the same time. Abused child, frightened lamb, the senator.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 09.15.2013 @ 7:23 pm


She is hard and yet yeilding, an amalgation of things unseen, unfelt, unheard. You see her, on those careful nights, but there is reareedom that lives and grows and thrives in the deepest corners of your cold heart.lly nothing there except for the wind. (She is the wind?) Don’t fear, she says, the wind on the moors whipping away her tender, careful words. But you do fear. You cannot help it, not when she bestows upon you this sweetly, frigid, seldom seen freedom that you will hold, forever in the deepest corners of your cold, still heart. WH.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 09.13.2013 @ 8:02 pm


She used to be beautiful and large and free. So they took her, and they molded her into something less perfect in order to makes themselves feel taller. Timidity had never been her friend, more a companion that lay in the back of her mind. Yet, in her timidity she found her power, because strength, she learned, was overrated.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 09.10.2013 @ 5:26 pm


Fierce and feisty in a place of opulence and sun across the world. He has ginger hair and wild, thin green eyes. It seems that the world lives in this small square and for that reason he is doomed. But today, in this place, he cannot bring himself to care. Because she is there, was there, with her beauty and fear and sheer immateriality.

» Posted By Rosalia Vanderbilt On 07.16.2013 @ 5:13 am

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