ShopDreamUp AI ArtDreamUp
Deviation Actions
Daily Deviation
Daily Deviation
June 3, 2013
paper hearts. by *theresambraun is a heartfelt work of fiction providing a much-needed perspective from those who treasure every human life. Please remember to respect the writer's beliefs when commenting.
Featured by Nichrysalis
Suggested by Estuari
Literature Text
There’s a crevice in the wall where she hides her little baby girl, all plastic smiles and mechanical giggles. She cuddles it like it has a soul and speaks to it like it has a name. Its soft rubber skin has been covered with paper hearts and marker stars, and its little plastic ears have been filled with whispers of adoration and love. Its wiry blonde hair has been crossed into braids, twisted up above its head, and she has pulled a dress onto its synthetic body with the brightest little smile. She reminds it that it’s beautiful, even though it can’t hear. She fastens it tight into the beaten pink stroller and skips behind it as it rolls across the pavement, dancing in the sun like there is no tomorrow and yesterday is only a dream.
And maybe she's only six years old, but she knows how babies are made. Not the ones you buy in the store, the ones you have to tear out of the cruel plastic covering; those are the strangest mystery. No, she knows just where the soft little babies with the tiny tulip lips and rosy cheeks come from. They are the lily of the deepest river, the star in the clearest night. They are the embrace of the warmest arms, the sweetest kisses, the strongest love. What more could be so powerful as to fuse together a new, tiny life?
And maybe she’s only fifteen, but she knows what it all means. Something as wonderful as love can’t be something you can mistake. His voice is like silver, silky velvet and his arms are like all that is holy. He holds the seasons in the palm of his hands, all time and all existence. And when those hands skim over her skin, she burns like she’s a hopeless disaster, drowning in a cold fire. She can feel the beat of every heart, she can hear the thoughts of every mind. She can see the future and she can relive the past. But only in his eyes.
And there’s a little basket where she hides you, her little baby girl, deep inside her. It’s all smooth pink walls and soft red blankets, because only God knows your every need. And maybe your heart can’t beat and maybe your ears can’t hear and maybe your lips can’t smile, but your soul twists and writhes within you; you’re more alive than most, you’re more real than she once believed that tiny doll was. Coiling and uncoiling, swimming in life, growing and growing. Tiny fingers, tiny toes. A tiny little perfect face with a perfect little mind and a perfect little heart that stumbles through its first beats.
And then your tiny little ears begin to hear and you can feel her every tear, every scream, every gasp of agony. Mommy, you whisper within your mind, because you’ll never have a voice within this safe place you call home. Oh, your voice could be just like that little doll, only more warm, more loving, more real and more beautiful.
But cool metal touches your skin and you pull back, tiny fingers pushing it away.
And then.
Oh, God.
And then you’re unraveling at the seams, being torn apart, being broken into a thousand pieces like a shattered mirror, the shards skidding across the cool tile like glittering stars across the sky. If you had a voice, you would scream because it burns like fire and it burns like hell, but you’ll never cry out the way she did. Your blood drips and slithers from her, spilling onto their hands, but it’ll all be washed away in time.
Mommy, your tiny little pink lips open and close like a fish out of water. Mommy, I just wanted to meet you.
And maybe she’s eighteen now, but everything’s different and everything’s the same. Mistakes come and mistakes go, but some wounds will never heal and some cuts will always bleed. She still hears your voice in her dreams and she still sees your face on that little doll, stowed far away in a cardboard box with other fragments of an unwanted childhood. And then she runs her fingers over a different box, cold and silver. Foreboding. Dangerous.
There are choices in life and choices in death, and she knows she has a right to them all. No one could ever stand up and cry out to her; she has the right to give and the right to take away. It is her life. It is her being. It is her choice.
So she pulls the trigger.
And she unravels at the seams. It burns like fire and it burns like hell, and her blood drips and slithers from her wounds. But somehow her blood is still more valuable than yours will ever be.
And maybe she's only six years old, but she knows how babies are made. Not the ones you buy in the store, the ones you have to tear out of the cruel plastic covering; those are the strangest mystery. No, she knows just where the soft little babies with the tiny tulip lips and rosy cheeks come from. They are the lily of the deepest river, the star in the clearest night. They are the embrace of the warmest arms, the sweetest kisses, the strongest love. What more could be so powerful as to fuse together a new, tiny life?
And maybe she’s only fifteen, but she knows what it all means. Something as wonderful as love can’t be something you can mistake. His voice is like silver, silky velvet and his arms are like all that is holy. He holds the seasons in the palm of his hands, all time and all existence. And when those hands skim over her skin, she burns like she’s a hopeless disaster, drowning in a cold fire. She can feel the beat of every heart, she can hear the thoughts of every mind. She can see the future and she can relive the past. But only in his eyes.
And there’s a little basket where she hides you, her little baby girl, deep inside her. It’s all smooth pink walls and soft red blankets, because only God knows your every need. And maybe your heart can’t beat and maybe your ears can’t hear and maybe your lips can’t smile, but your soul twists and writhes within you; you’re more alive than most, you’re more real than she once believed that tiny doll was. Coiling and uncoiling, swimming in life, growing and growing. Tiny fingers, tiny toes. A tiny little perfect face with a perfect little mind and a perfect little heart that stumbles through its first beats.
And then your tiny little ears begin to hear and you can feel her every tear, every scream, every gasp of agony. Mommy, you whisper within your mind, because you’ll never have a voice within this safe place you call home. Oh, your voice could be just like that little doll, only more warm, more loving, more real and more beautiful.
But cool metal touches your skin and you pull back, tiny fingers pushing it away.
And then.
Oh, God.
And then you’re unraveling at the seams, being torn apart, being broken into a thousand pieces like a shattered mirror, the shards skidding across the cool tile like glittering stars across the sky. If you had a voice, you would scream because it burns like fire and it burns like hell, but you’ll never cry out the way she did. Your blood drips and slithers from her, spilling onto their hands, but it’ll all be washed away in time.
Mommy, your tiny little pink lips open and close like a fish out of water. Mommy, I just wanted to meet you.
And maybe she’s eighteen now, but everything’s different and everything’s the same. Mistakes come and mistakes go, but some wounds will never heal and some cuts will always bleed. She still hears your voice in her dreams and she still sees your face on that little doll, stowed far away in a cardboard box with other fragments of an unwanted childhood. And then she runs her fingers over a different box, cold and silver. Foreboding. Dangerous.
There are choices in life and choices in death, and she knows she has a right to them all. No one could ever stand up and cry out to her; she has the right to give and the right to take away. It is her life. It is her being. It is her choice.
So she pulls the trigger.
And she unravels at the seams. It burns like fire and it burns like hell, and her blood drips and slithers from her wounds. But somehow her blood is still more valuable than yours will ever be.
Literature
water-colour emotions
you can't buy happiness, but you can buy tea, and thats kind of the same thing. i've been told that i have a knot inside my chest,
like those of the inside of a tree truck, eternally circling and looping. thats kind of how it feels, heavy and unstoppable.
if i have a tree inside me, then maybe that could explain the shaking, its just the westerly winter winds blowing and
making my far too fragile limbs bend but never break. i soak the tea leaves into the roots that are deep within my
fleshy heart and hope the capillaries will carry to wherever the aches are most ingrained and unnatural.
mother told me thr
Literature
A Product Label.
Love. (Requited Edition)
Directions:
Apply thoroughly all over body
Avoiding contact with delicate eye area
Repeat on a regular basis
For best results:
Use in conjunction with other products.
Keep stored in a cool place
Keep out of reach of children
Do not use if seal is broken or missing
Choking hazard
Do not swallow
For external use only.
If irritation occurs, discontinue use-
Rinse eyes immediately with water
If symptoms persist
Seek medical advice or see your doctor
Handle contents with care.
Literature
Dreamers
She reminds me that she's a dreamer
Her right hand delicately grips a pencil
as she's working equations on a TI-89 with her left
She looks up at me and smiles,
and there are stars, meteors,
spanning across the cosmos of her expression
her countenance reminds me to look up at the chalkboard
that's attempting to teach me how
to make verses sing from pages in a plain 8 by 11 notebook
and I am only armed with
a .7 pencil and a purple pen,
stolen from my older sister's pencil pouch
My hands are inches away from hers
from the desks side by side
like cars parallel parked on a side road
her equations confuse me
until she flips the
Suggested Collections
Featured in Groups
something's that's been floating in my mind for a while.
i just finally tied it all together with pretty words and stuck it on here.
this got a daily deviation. oh my goodness, i feel so honored. thank you all so much!
i just finally tied it all together with pretty words and stuck it on here.
this got a daily deviation. oh my goodness, i feel so honored. thank you all so much!
Comments185
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
This is tragic, and very skillfully written. Thank you for your words and your bravery.