Thursday, 30 December 2010


Everyone has to say them. Everyday. 
Some goodbyes are easy; the ones you know aren't forever, between you and your best friend you see everyday, or the ones you hope to be forever; date gone wrong, oddball for a man on the train who won't stop talking to you. 
Some are a lot harder; leaving someone you love dearly, whether that's only for a few days, a few weeks, a couple of months or a more immeasurable length of time. Burying someone in the ground is probably the hardest and most permanent goodbye, and one that no one ever wants to say.
But something I'm discovering is that no matter how many times you have to say it, the word 'goodbye' never gets any easier. Its only seven letters. Its a mere two syllables. It takes a second to say. 
But the finality of those seven letters, the emotional attachment to those two syllables, and the realisation that your loved one is gone one way or another in that second, is the reason that saying goodbye is the hardest thing to do. It might not be the longest word, but saying requires the strength to let go in one way or another. And hearing that seven letter, two syllable, one second word is perhaps the most brutal way of being introduced to it. 
-D. xoxo

Saturday, 4 December 2010


I've always said I live my life by clichés.
The dream of a knight in shining armour, and heartbreak being fixable, the thought of receiving 12 red roses on Valentines day, love being blind. If you love something, you have to set it free. Love conquers all. It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all.
I dare say that it is still true; I still live my life by clichés. But it is dangerous business. Think about it. 
My dream of a knight in shining armour. I have to turn away countless losers in tin foil riding donkeys rather than a white horse; setting my standards way up there means I probably miss out on some really good people.
Heartbreak being fixable. Its never fully repaired. Sure, you can get the superglue and sellotape and do your best, but you'll always miss the tiny little pieces, and you'll never find them. Your heart will never really be complete again once it has been broken.
Receiving 12 red roses on Valentines day. It just won't happen.
Love being blind. If love was blind, people wouldn't care how tall you were, or how skinny you were. What colour hair you have. And when someone talks about the person they love, the first question asked wouldn't be 'what do they look like?'
If you love something, you have to set it free. Total lie. 1. you don't have to do anything. 2. humans are selfish little buggers. If they love something, they're not about to release if off into the world for someone else to lay their hands on it.
Love conquers all. No, it really doesn't. Because if that were true, love would conquer distance, and third parties, and age. It would conquer death. If love conquered all, ultimately, we would be living in one hugely overpopulated world.
It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. Try telling that to a girl who has had her heart broken so many times she's pretty much lost all the pieces to it, and she's lying shattered on the floor because everyone she's ever loved has left her in some respect. Don't think she'd agree with you really.
Bottom line here; by living life by clichés, I've set myself up for a perfect world which cannot and does not exist. Clichés are dangerous business; they allow you to believe in the impossible.
But perhaps that is the greatest thing about them. They give us something to believe in; something to look up to in wonderment. Just because fairytales aren't true, does it stop us recounting the stories to our children? 
Then why on Earth should I ever stop believing in clichés? 
Well, I can tell you, I will not.
-D. xx

Sunday, 7 November 2010


You know Gaga, trust is like a mirror. You can fix it of its broke...
But you can still see the cracks in that mother fucker's reflection.
Taking a break from the boxes. 
Just for a minute.
You know, it just struck me. All this time, I trusted this person. Lets call them... Sam. I trusted Sam with my whole heart, I believed that she would never let me down or betray me. 
All I can say is that I was wrong. 
It kills me to think that I trusted this girl with my entire life, and now I know she's let me down once, I've no idea how many times she's prepared to do it again. Or how many times she's done it, unbeknownst to me, in the past. 
She's my best friend. I love her dearly. But if I cannot trust her, what is the point in her?
She will say anything to get someone to like her. No matter how much it hurts someone else. That someone else being me, in this particular case.
Its just proven one thing to me.
You can't trust anyone in this world except yourself. And the knowledge of that makes me very sad. Because you need to trust people to get on in life. Its a really bitter statement, and a poor outlook on life, but if I trusted this person who I've known for as long as I can remember and she let me down, so why should I trust someone else, whom I've known for half the time? 
Life is bull.
End of.
-D. xoxo

Tuesday, 2 November 2010


My twentieth velvet box, opened.
When Piers left, I figured that everyone would still talk about him, make reference to him in conversation. I didn't, for a second, consider that he didn't matter that much to everyone else as much as he mattered to me, and I found that I was the one who remembered that his favourite artist was Chris Brown, or that the colour he looked nicest in was blue. It was always me who interjected with random little shards of the person Piers once was into a conversation. Everyone else never mentioned him, because it was just part of how it was for them; people come, people go. Piers was one of those.
But not to me. I needed to talk about Piers, to help me through... I don't know, the grieving process? I needed to know he wasn't in my imagination. Lucky for me, I had very rare kinds of human surrounding me. Called friends. They probably hated me for it at the time, and they probably still do now. They stood there for countless hours, listening to me puzzle the whole thing through. I must've sounded so depressing... I still do, half the time. But the point is, my friends proved to me that he existed. They helped me face that he was gone. And I know that I will probably never forget him, but my friends help me deal with it, every day. I still bring him up in conversation every now and then. Force of habit, I guess. But I don't sit there thinking about him all the time, I don't feel the need to validate his existence with my friends anymore. And I've realised something. 
Without Piers, I can be happy. 
I am happy, without him. 
I blamed him for everything, and then I blamed myself for it. But the truth is, it was no one's blame to take. And in the knowledge of that, I can close this box, and every one in his name with it. Because sometimes, its okay to just live.
Twenty velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x


I'm very, very sorry for not being a loyal Blogger. 
Two months. 
Blogs to follow. 
Love <3

Friday, 20 August 2010


My nineteenth velvet box, opened.
My mother. My fiery, judgemental mother.
Lets start with the bad bits.
She doesn't take anything lightly. She judges every little thing I do, and takes things at face value, not bothering to consider what lies underneath the surface. She hates it when other people are right and she's not.
Despite those few bad things, my mother is an absolute saint. She has to be the most wonderful person in my life. She listens to my problems, she sits there while I ramble on about boys, girls, life, depression, happiness. She stood proud as I walked into my first day of school, she was the one who dried my eyes when I first had my heart broken.
Through everything and anything, my mother has stuck by me.
No matter what shit I get into, or how much I scream at her for not letting me have it my way, she is always there, on the other end of a phone, or at my bedroom door, or waiting for me, smiling, as I come home upset.
In many ways, I am so like my mother. We have a sordid obsession with neatness. I like the same things as her, the same chocolate. We think in the same way most of the time. And sometimes, I swear we can read each others minds. She knows me, inside and out, and that sometimes scares me. Because no matter how good I become at lying, she just sees right through the façade as if its made out of paper.
There was a time I didn't like my mother, because I believed that I had inherited her worst traits. Her short temper. Her neatness. Her oily skin. 
But then I realised that oily skin means less wrinkles. Her short temper is her passion for life, as is mine. And neatness means that I can always locate my socks.
My mother is the one thing in my life that remains constant.
Everything else is variable.
But I can always count on my mother to be the same, every day, to keep me sane and to keep me grounded.
I love her, from the depths of my heart, and I will always love her. No matter how much I hate her sometimes, no matter how much she might piss me off at other times, I would do absolutely anything for her.
I love you, Mum <3
Nineteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Wednesday, 28 July 2010


I'm sorry.
But my Formspring abusers were right. 
I'm going to delete my blog. 
I might start a new one,
A happy one. One less 'dramatic' and 'self-centred', and one where I'm not 'seeking attention'. 
But this one is going, one way or another.
I can't take it anymore, I read this thing and it actually does make me cringe.
Bye bye old me.
Hello happy me? 
Once I stop arguing with my best friend.
-D. xx

Saturday, 10 July 2010


My eighteenth velvet box, opened.
Its like opening Pandora's box with this one.
Demons galore await inside.
I'll be honest. I don't want to write this one. People close to me read this blog, and I'm scared that they will not think of me in the same, angelic way. They might pull me up on it, want the full story, think of me as a psychologically unstable. 
I have a feeling that my aunt reads this from time to time, and should she happen across this one, she would not be all that pleased; she would report it to my mother, and in turn, that would not only get me pulled out of Sylvia's by her, but would also probably get me sectioned.
I don't want to look into it, and I don't want it to be involved with my life, nor do I want it to take over.
Unfortunately, it plays a part in my life still. And it always manages to take over.
Drops of blood line the walls of this box. My blood. Caused by me. Razorblades and plasters, blood and more blood. Inside, is every reason I choose to let out my pain in such a physical way. Its not something I'm proud of, and not something I splash into every single conversation. I'm not comfortable talking about it. Its such a strange way of expression, such a melancholy way of trying to stay sane. And its not perfect. When I cut, the world gets better - the world is better. And then it's not anymore. And I have to do it again. Its frustrating, and for a few days, the pain rules my life. Because its never on my arms (tried that one once - ended in complete disaster; a shouting match and my relationship with my mother thrown into complete jeopardy), it is subject to vast amounts of friction from various layers of clothing, not to mention soap in the shower when they're fresh, sometimes causing bleeding all over again. Hips. Always the hips. They bleed nicely, but not too much, and its a place no one but me ever sees. Besides my ballet class. But under tights, they're unnoticeable unless you're looking for them. And no one ever is. No one thinks to. I'm the girl who lives in a world of rainbows, where nothing ever goes wrong - 
If only they knew.
Why do I do it, you ask? The world gets on top of me, and I can't cope. When I get left by someone who means the world to me, it causes a trigger. While the world lies in peace, I am left crying silently to myself, but I never know why. These are a few, and the rest not even I know fully.
I hate what I've become because of my addiction - the girl on the outside who is loved by few and used by all. As soon as someone 'better' comes along, I'm left in the dust. Of course, it happens always - why have something broken when you can have something whole? That's what SI did to me - it broke me. It makes me feel, self-conscious, worthless, battered, belittled, and like I don't matter. I'm constantly worried that someone will notice the lines under my ballet tights, or will question me as to why I wince when they touch my hips. I get scared when I get into the shower and they get hit by jets of water. Its an awful thing to live with for two weeks, but yet I keep going back to it.
Not anymore. 
It is no longer a concern of mine. And no matter how much I want to do it again, I will not.
For my family's sake. For my friends. 
For myself.
I'm sorry to you all, if reading this post has changed your view of me. No one is perfect, and I am certainly no exception. If you can find in within yourself to still love me and accept me, scars and all, I will be the happiest person in the world.
Because I would have the support of those I love.
With that, 
there is no need for this box anymore.
Eighteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Sunday, 4 July 2010


My seventeenth velvet box, opened.
Every single day passed the same.
Six months went by,
And I was nothing.
I remember nothing.
Every night, I would cry myself to sleep. Over and over.
For the first eleven days without him, I cried. I didn't eat, or sleep, and I couldn't even begin to comprehend moving on. I lived in a funny kind of existence, barely surviving. Every day was the same. It hadn't sunk in. Not for those first six months. I was in complete denial. The most awful part was that I seemed to be the only one so crushed by his disappearance. Everyone else had forgotten, yet, here I was, delusional, thinking that he would come back, believing that it was possible.
Of course, it was not.
I missed him, so much. I still do. The tears still sometimes fall, the blood sometimes does too, the scars will fade, the tracks my tears make in my cheeks become less each day, but I can't help but cry over Piers. I'm not sure why... perhaps because I lost him. Perhaps because I let him go, or maybe a mix of the two. He slipped away so effortlessly, it was painful to feel. Its still painful to feel. And that pain won't ever go away, but it gets less and less each day I allow to go by without thinking of him.
Seventeen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Sunday, 27 June 2010


My sixteenth velvet box, opened.

16th July 2008
I didn't sleep. I couldn't eat.
I cried the whole night.
And walked into my very own personal hell.

Everyone always tells you that you won't ever make a difference. Everyone tells you that you're just one person. But you are very, very special. And everything in this world is worth fighting for, and I'm going to fight for what I believe in. I have to move, but it doesn't mean that I have to leave. Because I'm still here, in your heart, in your head, deep inside the memories you hold of me within velvet boxes. I will never not be there. I'll be around. You might see me from time to time. You may talk to me sometimes. You might meet someone with the same eyes as me, or the same gestures, or you might even sit there and smell me on the tube. But sometime, and it won't be as long as you think from now, the pain of today will fade. The tears will stop falling over me and you'll meet someone else who is simply amazing, but you'll never be able to put your finger on why they are so. That reason will be me. You will glimpse part of me within him, and you'll cling onto it with all you've got. The world won't stop turning when I walk away from here, or when you do. The sky won't cave in, and the stars won't implode. Life will carry on for everyone. So you've got to promise me that you'll remember. Because memories can bring people back forever; it just takes the ability to believe.
The words flew from his lips so fluidly. I could feel the tears well up in my eyes. This was it. This could be the last time I would ever see him. I smiled at him. And I walked away. There were words still unspoken on my lips, and so much I needed to hear from his. But I walked.
I'll never know why I left like that on that day. Maybe I didn't want to hear what he said. Maybe the above was enough. Perhaps I was trying to make it easier for myself. It didn't work. But This was one of the most inspirational things I've ever heard, and I'll never, ever forget Piers Stubbs.
Sixteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Friday, 4 June 2010


My fifteenth velvet box, opened.
I feel what this box contains all the time. Its always with me, in my heart and my head.

I remember the first time it happened.
We were sitting there, chatting away. Me, Piers, and Grace. We were talking about trivial things; what was happening over the weekend, who we were friends with, who we liked. It was this that was the most interesting of the three. At the time, I liked Michael, and everyone knew, so, Grace and Piers didn't even bother to ask me who I liked. Grace was an open man-hater at the time, after being a recent victim to teenage heartbreak. So the attention turned to Piers. He knew it would; he liked to leave everything about his love life to mystery. It was something everyone seemed to be talking about, even though everyone knew next to nothing about it. All anyone knew, was that the person he liked was 'forbidden' for some reason or another.
Grace started it off.
'So, Piers, who is she?'
'What do you mean?' He replied. Pah, like he didn't know.
'Your forbidden love. Who is it?'
'If I told you that, Gracie,' - He always called her that, for some reason - 'I'm afraid I'd have to kill you.' He flashed one of those wickedly beautiful smiles, and I could see Grace swooning almost as much as me.
We looked at each other then, Piers and me. And it was glorious. Right then, I knew he was going to say something big. I knew he liked someone, he'd told me so. Maybe now was when I was finally going to find out who it was. It was nothing I could've dreamed of.
It was my worst nightmare.
'Besides,' Piers began, 'why on Earth would I tell you if I liked anyone? Why would I even like anyone when I've got a girlfriend?'
Grace's face lit up - but not before something rather rare and peculiar. I saw the smallest glint of sadness cross her eyes, so small that it was completely unnoticeable to someone who wasn't really looking. But I saw it.
'Sorry, did you just say you had a girlfriend?' I asked.
'Yes. Brown hair, brown eyes, olive skinned, tall-ish, not fat, but not skinny, and breathtakingly beautiful.'
I felt it begin as soon as he'd finished his description of her. I spat the word in my head. Her. Her. She was like me, in so many respects. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Not fat, but not skinny. Olive skinned. Tall-ish.
I didn't know what was coming over me. My heart stopped beating and, for a minute or so, my blood ran cold. I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. I didn't want to believe it. I could feel hatred boiling over in the very pit of my stomach. Hatred towards a girl whom I'd never even met. I was not sure why at the time; it was a strange feeling. Not quite murderous, and nowhere near rainbows and unicorns. Pure, searing envy. And its one of the most painfully beautiful things I'll ever experience.
After that, I felt it all the time. Whenever he mentioned her, my heart stood still and I began to hate this person who he seemed to care about so much more than me.
It hurt. It hurt so very much.

It was a strange day. I wasn't aware of my feelings towards Piers at this point; as far as I was concerned, he was just a friend. But it seemed he was already something more. I still feel it now; someone, somewhere, is lucky enough to call Piers, theirs. He belongs to someone in the world, right now. But it'll never be me.
Fifteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Sunday, 30 May 2010


My fourteenth velvet box, opened.
They sit in the bottom. They haunt my dreams and are the stuff of every nightmare I've ever had. They're a constant source of pleasure and pain, but I never know which one it will be until I get them out of the box and look at them.
They're the most painfully beautiful thing I've ever been blessed to look at. They are Piers Stubbs's beautiful eyes. I stare at them from my memories constantly. They shimmer in the pictures I still possess in my head. They were such a beautiful colour. They were like the sea on a summery, cloudless day. A beautiful, deep blue, glistening from behind his eyelashes. I remember the way they crinkled at the corners when he smiled, or when he laughed. The times when they became smaller as he frowned and his eyebrows sank down onto them. The times he was sad, and he looked off into space, when they became distant and almost unfathomable; like old eyes, wise and all-seeing, set into a young, unknowing face. Or those times they would go cold and blank, as if he was not going to say anything on the matter that had been raised. His eyes told such stories to me, ones he couldn't, or wouldn't speak with words. But most of all, those eyes pierced my very soul. They would look at me and delve into everything I was thinking. You read me like a book with those eyes, you really did. You understood me like no other. And I'll never get that back.
I love this box. I adore the memory I have of his eyes, so I shall keep it.
Fourteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Wednesday, 26 May 2010


My thirteenth velvet box, opened.

I stood, looking puzzled at the timetable stuck on the wall. Funny, because it had never confused me before; I'd been here half a term already. But this was strange. I had no lunch, according to that piece of paper on the wall. I was the only one in the corridor, and I felt small.
'You look lost,' a voice over my shoulder told me. it was smooth and alluring, calm and collected, and had a beautiful husk to it. My nose caught the scent of him; a soft, woody smell, slightly spicy, but not too much of a kick. Joop. I turned around to face the stranger. I wouldn't exactly call him a boy. More an angel. He walked with an unmistakable grace, and that strange air of confidence that made you feel welcome, but not intimidated. It told me he was important, but not unapproachable. His hair was lightly tousled, and a soft, bright shade of blonde - not too striking, not too dull. His eyes were a deep shade of blue, and they twinkled with intuition and knowledge. His skin was a sultry peachy white colour, and it looked so delicate that if you touched him, he would break. And he had the most perfectly white, wide, warm smile. 'Can I help?'
I thought for a minute. 'Well, I have no lunch. Any ideas...'
'Piers. Piers Stubbs. Pleased to meet you...'
'Deanna. Deanna Cappella.'
He looked at me and smiled. 'Italian.'
'Half,' I said, and smiled slightly.
'Well, Deanna, I tell you what. I'm on lunch next lesson. Fancy coming with me?'
'Well, I don't know about that...' I said, smiling.
He looked at me and grinned. 'Come on, lets get you to your next class, Deanna.'
He walked me all the way up to the roof. Eight flights of stairs. We talked about the things you talk about when you first meet someone; how old you are, what year you're in, family and friends, how I was finding the school. He was twelve, I was ten. He was year 8, I was year 6. I liked his best friend. Michael Parsons. He had a sister and a mother. Dad walked out. That was all he would say, about his family, at least. When we got to the roof, I realised I was ten minutes late. So Piers walked in and explained that I had gotten lost. I nearly laughed; if we hadn't been walking so slow, I would've been on time easily. But I didn't say that. He turned to face me. 'Well, I'll save you a space at lunch, right next to me, okay? And if you're lucky, I'll put Michael opposite you,' and he winked. 'I'd like that.' And with that, Piers was gone.

This was the first day I met Piers. And I never forgot it. I will forever treasure it, its one of the most beautiful and oldest memories I have.
Thirteen velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Sunday, 9 May 2010


My twelfth velvet box, opened.

I love this box. Its so precious to me. Because inside, is something that I treasure more than life itself. Inside, is Demii Lee Walker. And she is wonderful. I call her my lesbian. Of course, we're not. But I love her too much. She's like the amazing sister I never really had. The one who listens to everything I have to say and gives the best advice in the world. The one who isn't scared to hurt my feelings, because she knows that its better to tell me the truth.
But life with Demii wasn't always so blissful. Once upon a time, we weren't friends. And then when we became friends, I let her down. She trusted me, and I slaughtered it. Yet, somehow, she found it in her heart to forgive my big mouth. And after the trauma I caused, I made an effort to get our friendship back to where it was. But I didn't succeed. No, I surpassed that. Our relationship is stronger than it has ever been, and I am so, so grateful to her. My Demii. L4L, S4L. (Lesbian for life, Sister for life). She has always been there, and for that, Demii, I love and worship you, so very much.
Because you are so special to me, Demii, I will move this box, out of my head and close to my heart. LoveYouForever Demii.
Twelve velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Saturday, 17 April 2010


My eleventh velvet box, opened.

Oh, this box. It looks dark and awful, and it gives off a painful aura. It looks devilish and scary, and what lies inside is something I do not ever want to face. Something which continues to grow, no matter what I do. Inside, lies the part of my heart that lay victim to heartbreak. And slowly, it rots away. I can't help it, and there is nothing I can do about it. It grows, and mounts as more of my heart crumbles. Lets put it this way: If my heart had hands, it would grab the razor and completely destroy itself. It probably already has. Its not really a matter I have much to say on. But its there.
And there is nothing I can do about it.
Eleven velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Monday, 5 April 2010


My tenth velvet box, opened.
This box is nearly in perfect condition. It shines with a pure light, a halo, almost. It is beautifully white, no discolouration or signs of grey patches anywhere. It glimmers in the corner of my mind, sitting on the edge, unopened for many years.
Inside this box, lies my years of innocence. Such beautiful, blissful memories of an innocent life. It seems a world away now, like it was lived by someone else. I remember, the only things that mattered were what my mother had planned for me tomorrow, or what the weather was like. I was free to do what I liked, and free to feel what I wanted to feel, and the biggest cuss from a friend was 'you're not invited to my party now!' There were no limits, and I couldn't see anything wrong. Money was limitless and everyone in the world was good.
Then, someone, something, stole me away from my perfect little world. And that thing was love. Love put me in a world where nothing is simple, and life is always an uphill struggle. Where money is restricted and you're told how to dress, how to behave, how to be. Where people can be snatched away from us in a heartbeat, and love isn't like the kind you find in the fairytale books, sitting dusty on your shelf. You watch things grow older, and then they wither and die, but you begin to realise that even as you grow older, nothing gets any easier. And no matter what you do, or how you act, or what you say, people will still be heartless, homeless, and horrible.
I never realised how bitter I was on my childhood. I long to go back to that time, when everything was easy. But its not possible. I'll discard the bitterness, but keep the memories. I miss being a child. so, so much.
Ten velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Monday, 29 March 2010


My ninth velvet box, opened.
Inside, lies the precious few memories I have when I was genuinely happy. This box is small, and the contents are scarce. Maybe that's because I have a bad memory for happy things, perhaps its because much of my childhood is alien to me. I honestly don't remember a lot. I remember my trip to America, when I was four. I remember... the first time I did a dance exam, and I got the highest mark out of my whole dance school. I was seven. I received a mark of 92 out of 100. I remember... my first day, walking through the doors of Sylvia Young, at the tender age of eleven. I remember the day I found out I even got in to Sylvia's. That has to be the happiest moment of my life. Ironic, really. Because since, its caused nothing but pain. And apart from that, there are no real happy moments in my life. A few, small ones. And okay, a few more big ones. But I'll include them in their boxes There's no point putting them in here. And anyway, This box was always going to be small. Much of my life that I remember is recent. And that makes it sad, the vast majority.
I will keep this box, small as its contents are. I'll keep the few memories I have left of this box close to my heart, so that I do not lose any more.
Nine velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Sunday, 21 March 2010


My eighth velvet box, opened.
Inside, lies the golden, perfect, undamaged memory, of none other than the beautiful Johnny Bishop. The memory lives and thrives within the walls of this velvet box, bouncing around, never really at rest. Its always fighting to get out, to wheedle its way back into my heart and to course through my veins once more, to poison my head with thoughts I shouldn't be thinking about him.
Where can I possibly start with Jonathan Bishop. Johnny... was my rock. He was the one who pulled me through my entire Piers crisis, after he left and I was lost. He was the one who didn't judge me. He understood everything I was going through. He helped me control myself in those first few weeks of denial, the next few months of depression, and the final few years of acceptance. He was selfless, and beautiful in himself, and so innocent, in a way. He's 16 now, but he's so focused on his career. He doesn't care about girls, or relationships, and it shows, because when he dances, he leaves me breathless. I find myself picking him out of a crowd of 50 people and watching him the whole time. And its no secret, and never will be any different: I loved Johnny, and I always will love Johnny. For everything he did for me, and so, so much more. For the way he never looks down on anybody for anything, and the way he always supports people in all of their decisions. The way he is just so... Johnny. There aren't words really to describe how magical he is. An angel, sent from God, to take everyone under his wing. That, is how I shall remember Johnny Bishop.
I need to lock this velvet box. As much as it will always be true, I can't love him, its not rational. And as much as love is irrational all the time, this is just too irrational for me. I shall always love you, Johnny Bishop. And for what its worth, for all the times you've helped me over the years, for every beautiful love song and tear wiped away from my red cheeks, I thank you and assure you that if ever you need someone to be there, or a shoulder to cry on; even someone to love, I will be there. I will be your home, like you've been for me these past few years. Last thing I want to say, is:
Thank you, so, so much.
Eight velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Saturday, 20 March 2010


My seventh velvet box, opened.
This box used to be precious to me, it used to hold everything my heart desired. But then it faded, became something I didn't like to think about. Inside, lies the memory of Michael Parsons. Its tattered and torn now. It barely resembles anything. I can't take much from it anymore, everything is blurry. I remember, once, you liked me back. You really liked me back. There was a two year age gap, and I was young, year 6. I was 10, and the hands of love had already poisoned me. How awful. You were year 8, about 12 or 13. It wasn't so bad for you. You were feeling good about it, and so was I, at first. Then you left school for about six months. And I missed you. During this time, everyone at school managed to find out about my crush on you. But you weren't that stupid, no, you didn't tell anyone, you kept it a secret. You carried on liking me in year 9. When I was year 7. It was no secret by then. Everyone was telling you about it. I got so embarrassed, and so did you. You stopped liking me about then, but I carried on, blind to how awful you were. You never spoke to me, you were always so different with me. In tap, you would always talk to me. Outside in the corridor, sometimes you would say hello, other times you would completely blank me. You text me saying you loved me on December 19th, 2007. What a load of shit that was. But I thought it was true at the time, and out on a limb in March 2008, in a desperate attempt to make you love me, wrote you a two page letter. It got read to 60 people in the yard. Oh dear. Worst day of my life. People still mention it now. I walked into maths crying my eyes out. Poor Mr. Smyth, he had to sit there and watch his favourite pupil bawl as if her family had died. That was what it felt like. My life was over. Three months later, I find out that it was actually Michael read it to the yard. Any feelings of affection that still remained were cut off right then. I couldn't believe that you had made fun of my love. You found it so hilarious that you just had to tell everyone? What the hell? then you left. I didn't care. I still don't. Yet, out of all the pain you caused me, and as much as I still hate you, and think how you used me and abused me was wrong, I still respect you. And I bet, if I saw you today, right this second, my stomach would jump for you. I would fall for you again. If only a bit, I know I would.
I wish I had it in me to get rid of these memories, few and perforated as they are, but I can't seem to do it. I'm too attached to them, they mean too much to me. They hold too much emotion to throw away. So I'll keep them. But only for now.
LoveLoveLove x

Monday, 15 March 2010


My sixth velvet box, opened.
Inside, lies every crush I had, when I was still a girl. All the boys I took into my heart.
  • Alex Brown: The tall lanky one who had really spiky hair and was a real sweetie to me. I was young. He was cute. Can you blame me? The crush lasted about three weeks, if that.
  • Patrick Harper: Wowza. Could the boy dance or what. He left me speechless when he danced. We travelled together for a while. And he was so funny, and beautiful in an unusual way. Crush lasted a while. Cannot put a time frame to it.
  • Harrison Webb: Well well. The absolutely stunning boy. Immature? Yes. But he was so beautiful. He had the deepest brown eyes, and lightly spiked hair, and he was so nice to me, and he was funny, and he gave good hugs... Crush lasted about two months.
  • Bertie Gilbert: My emo spongebob, as I liked to call him :) He is the cutest shade of blonde, and he has beautiful blue eyes. And he is so dirty-sexy-funny, in a cute way :) crush is ongoing, at the bottom of my heart.
  • Jerome Davies: The sleazy ginger who only cares about himself and sex. To put it bluntly. But underneath all the hair, and the stupid facade, he is such a nice person. I'm blessed to have seen that side of him. Crush lasted half a year.
  • Nathan Clark: Clarkie! My gorgeous, caring, thoughtful friend. Wowza. He always helped me without any sort of complaint. And he is so innocent, despite being two years my senior. Crush lasted a solid two years.
  • Karim Zeroual: The heartless playa' who thinks he's a rudeboy and lives in Notting Hill. Yeah. Like that fits in a sentence together. But when you're on your own with him, he turns into this nice, funny, respectable guy. Crush lasted about a year and a half.
  • Nathan Sykes: Well. He was just a sex beast and a half. I was so gutted when he left school, he became like my brother. And he was so hilarious, in a really depressing way, which made it all the funnier. Crush lasted about a year.
  • Shea Davis: The blonde, short one who always seemed to take joy in mocking my nickname because it corresponded with my bust size (DD, for those of you who don't know). He was funny. And made me laugh with how raucous he was. Crush lasted two years.
  • Sam Harris: Relationship actually succeeded with this one. Not long though. Blonde, short, immature, and completely unreliable. But he stole my heart, if only for a while. I gave up asking for it back when I realised it belonged there. Love ongoing, it fades every now and then.

And that's it. I'll keep this box. Its got so many good memories in it.
Six velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Thursday, 11 March 2010


My fifth velvet box, opened.
Inside... lies every reason I hate SYTS. Its not the place, the place is amazing. Its the people. The people confuse me, they're bitchy and nice at the same time. They don't seem to have any consideration for anyone else's feelings, and they think they are the best thing since sliced bread. But you can always count on them to listen to you and give you a good laugh. I walk into that building, and I see a web of lies and deceit, created by these alien-like humans, and you, the normal one, have to try and battle your way through the disgusting sagacity to try and get to the truth laying underneath. The people never have a second thought for other people and they don't seem to care if they completely humiliate you.
But then you get those rarities. Where someone will come along and be that compassionate human being, who only cares for others. And that's what he was. And now, every day, when I walk through those corridors, when I walk into the studios and past the noticeboards, I see him everywhere. The place in the ground floor where we would always meet to talk, or wait to go on a job together. That desk, in G2, with your name scrawled across it. Time and time again, I've tried to erase it, but it never seems to fade. Even the outside of the building, where I see you standing there for the last time. All of it draws back such strong memories. That is why I hate SYTS. Because everyday, I walk into that haven, and all I see is pain. I see missed opportunities and lies I added to the web. I see... so much sadness and confusion. I will always walk into that building and see those things.
For that reason, I think I need to rid myself of this box. Its unnecessary; I know it'll always exist. Its inevitable that my memories of you consist of specific places in that building, and there is nothing I can do about it.
Five velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Friday, 5 March 2010


My fourth velvet box, opened.
Inside, lies all the anger and frustration I've ever felt over my life. All the little things, like how my day always gets ruined by something, or how Jack always flicks his head to fix his hair. Its the most aggravating action in the world, I assure you. Or the way Shanz will go to kiss me, but then he'll look away.
But, mainly, its frustration and anger over how stupidly complicated my life is. Its ridiculous. I can't even understand half of it. Its the worst thing in the world; walking blind through your own life. I can't see anything. I don't know anything, not really. My life is like one of those puzzles, where you have a thousand sticks, all piled on top of each other, splayed in different directions, and you have to figure out which one to pick up without disturbing any others. Only difference is, I can't find the right stick to pick up anywhere. I always pick the wrong one, and tangle them up even more. So my life gets worse and worse, and when I try to un-complicate it, I make the whole thing worse.
But the worst part of this box, the most frustrating thing in my life, is that I am misunderstood, by many people, on different levels. For people who know I cut, they class me as emo and suicidal. For people who know my sadness, they class me as the sad, depressed one. For people who only see the happy side of me, I'm the good little church girl who can do no wrong and lives in a world of rainbows and unicorns. For people who don't know me, I'm the trustworthy advice giver. But they're all wrong.
Because all I am, is a mask, cut out from a fairy story of what I was trying to be. All I really am, is a shell, a host to many different Deanna's, but not a single original copy. I'm empty, and lifeless, and not sure of where I'm going, or what I'm doing, or what the purpose of my being on this Earth is. So, for the people who think they know me; they don't. By a long shot, they are so far off, they could be on Pluto; the lonely little planetoid circling the universe, cursed to spend his life alone. I am cold. Empty. Lifeless. Alone. Scrunched up in a ball, somewhere in my heart, scared. And that girl inside is worth very little.
I don't think I like this box. I'm going to get rid of it. Its too... angry, too fiery for my liking. Too truthful, perhaps.
Four velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Saturday, 27 February 2010


My third velvet box, opened.
Inside, lies every single tree I've ever cut down from writing all my feelings in countless diaries. I have probably, single-handedly destroyed well over half of the Brazilian Rainforest. Think about all the paper I've ruined with countless out pourings of feelings. Think about all the trees that have died because of my ignorance. Did I care that the rainforest lain home to thousands of different walks of life? Or that those trees were some of the best to slow the process of Global Warming? Of course not. I was just an ignorant child, interested only in myself. I feel guilty. Ashamed, almost.
But do you know what the scary thing is? I would cut down a thousand more if I thought it would bring him back.That is what lies at the roots of this box. The feeling that if I accomplish enough, if I do enough in his memory, or he came back and would promise to never leave again if I did certain things; I would go out and do it all. I would do anything he asked of me. I would write his name in the sky. I would make every day sunny and deal with the droughts that followed. I would cry him an ocean, bleed him a river, kill him a hundred. I won't deny it; if it brought him back, I would do anything. But, he isn't like that. He was never like that. He never asked anything of anyone, really. He didn't take much. He gave a lot. He received a lot involuntarily. He was the depiction of an angel. He would never ask me to cry an ocean. He wouldn't make me work for his love. He would give it, or he wouldn't.
And he wouldn't. I shall banish this box. He is not worth everything in the world; he never was, and he never will be. No one is worth a river of blood. He may have been an angel, but something he wasn't:
He was not perfect.
Three velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Sunday, 21 February 2010


My second velvet box, opened.
Inside, lies all my self pitying moments. The times when I sat at my window, staring up to the stars, questioning them countless times, why exactly it had to be me it all happened to. Why did it have to be me that fell in love with a complete idiot? Why did it have to be me that had her best friend die right before her eyes? I sat there with him, watching the light leave his eyes as he bled out on the street. I had to tell him that it would be okay, that it was only a flesh wound and that in a while, he would be fine. I sat with him while he was in a coma, on life support, watching him as he looked like an angel sleeping. Then I got him back, once he came out of it, only to have to lose him a second time, to the hands of death. This time, it was forever.
Why did it have to be my boyfriend that was the cheater? And me, the one who had everyone she ever loved, leave her? Why was it me that my mother could never love?
You see, when I was going through all this, I thought I had the worst life in the world. But I forgot all those people in Africa. In Thailand. Who can't go to school, because they have no money. Who starve, if the harvest is bad. I was selfish. So, essentially, my violet box is the selfish side of me. And I will banish her. That selfish girl, who only thought about herself. She is now gone. Out of the velvet box, out of my mind.
Two velvet boxes, open and redundant.
LoveLoveLove x

Saturday, 20 February 2010


My first velvet box, opened.
Inside, lies all the reasons I decided to change my hair colour.
From brunette, to... plum. There's no other way to describe the colour.
And there's quite a few of them, I assure you.
I never felt good enough. I wanted a change. I wanted my mother to love me. She always puts me down, and I thought if I changed, she would finally approve. I looked in the mirror and hated what I saw. I saw someone who was never right. Never pretty enough. Or funny enough. Or smart enough.
But that wasn't the main reason.
The main reason, was... I looked in the mirror, and I saw someone that he couldn't... wouldn't love. I thought, maybe if I changed my hair and turned over a new leaf, he would come running back and he would realise how much he loves me. But, of course, this is not a fairytale. And it would never have happened anyway. But it was the only hope I had. And somehow, that hope is still alive, in this box. And I will keep it alive, but now, I'll embrace it, rather than shove it in a box because I think its shameful after two years to still love him. To still want him to come back. But its not. And I've accepted that.
One box, open and redundant.
I have made a start. And what I start, I finish. So, for a while, my blog will consist mainly of opening my little velvet boxes.
LoveLoveLove x


I went to the cinema today. And walking in there, I was not very appreciative of life. I was the same. We take things for granted in this life. And nothing more so than life. I watched the film with my Sister for Life, Demii, and we were crying practically the whole way through. So the film finished, the lights came up, we waltzed out of the cinema. And after watching that poor girl die on that screen, watching her go through that emotional pain of seeing her family fall apart because of it, it struck a chord within me. Somehow, as the world floats by, we never notice how beautiful it is. Its magical. The sky shines in endless shades of blue and gold. The clouds drift slowly across the scape. The streets make a comforting 'click-clack' as I step on them. The shop signs shine in colours I never knew existed.
And I am so glad to be alive.
-D. xox

Thursday, 18 February 2010

Little velvet boxes

Inside the corners of my mind,
Buried deep within themselves,
Are little locked velvet boxes.

I can tell you what lies inside every coloured cavity.

In the blue,
A thousand tears cried for a lost one,
Who stared out at the world with sapphire eyes.

In the green,
The envious hatred I felt for her as she stole
The one thing I held so dear.

In the orange,
The fire and frustration that seethes
Beneath my misunderstood flesh.

In the yellow,
Few precious memories of a rarity
We only define as happiness.

In the purple,
Countless nights spent staring to the stars,
Wondering why it had to be me.

In the white,
Years of my life, years spent
Innocent and beautiful.

In the black,
The rotting part of my aching heart,
Slowly gathering in mass.

In the brown,
The masses of forest I've destroyed
With pages of feelings.

In the gold,
One, beautiful moment of my life,
Slowly fading away.

And in the red,
The deep, crimson box,
Lies my most shameful secret.

In the red box,
The drops of pain that ooze
From my very soul.

The little crimson drops
Of blood.


Your tube post. It...
It makes me laugh.
Really, really laugh.
I haven't laughed like that in months.
And I know its random,
I know its a wierd thing to say.
But it always makes me laugh,
Because it reminds me of life.
Of reality. It reminds me
That I'm not a complete loon.
Or a total loner.
Because there are people.
Poeple everywhere.
All over.
And crammed on your bus when the tubes strike :)

Never get used to this...

I'm used to you being selfless and innocent. I'm used to you sitting there and taking it all in, without being bitter towards everything I'm trying to express. I'm used to being able to tell you everything that's on my mind, without censoring parts of it because I know it'll hurt you.
So I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. Its not you that needs to apologise. Its me. Because you've been keeping it up, not showing me how much you hate him and any other man who lays claim to me. You don't show it, for my sake. But I never thought of you.So I'm apologising, and telling you that I will try. For you.
-D. xox

Wednesday, 17 February 2010

My dirty little secret, out in the open.

So, tell the group why you do what you do.
I do it because... Well, at first it was just because I needed to feel physical pain, to release the emotional pain inside me. So that I could cry everything away. So that I wouldn't feel like I was suffocating in my own body. And then my mother found out. And it was one of those moments where, when someone tells you not to do something, you go and do it anyway, as an act of... defiance. So, a few more times, I proceeded with it, hoping that she would see, trying to cope, trying to defy my mother's wishes, trying to stay sane. Then, after that, when I told my friends and I saw their reactions, it made me realise how stupid it was, and I stopped. But it was an everyday battle not to go back to it. But I did. I have. Its an addiction. One of the most addicting things any sane person would ever throw themselves into. You might not realise how addicting and alluring the sight of your own pain caused by your own hand is. Your own blood, leaving your body because of your actions. For just a second, you don't feel the pain. All you feel is release. You feel in control of yourself, for those few precious seconds, and its enough to keep you going for a couple of days. But then you stop feeling okay. And you have to do it again. Its a coping mechanism. To cope with life. People who self harm do not want to die. Its actually quite the opposite. They want to live. So, so badly. So much, that they will do anything to do so. When you can stop, you don't want to. And when you can't, there's nothing more you'd want to do than to stop. Its an everyday battle not to go back to it. And its a battle I lost. I can't help but smile as pain fills me up. I remember this feeling from long, long ago, when I did it the first time. And it is such a good feeling. One I remember well. One I yearned for. One I had denied myself for eight months. And with good reason, too. Its an addictive feeling. You feel it once, and you have to go back for more. Emotional pain is the worst kind of pain, because no one else can feel it, no one else can see it, no one else even knows it exists, but you feel it, and you can't explain it no matter how hard you try to. So you have to deal with it yourself, and my way is cutting.
I'm a cutter.
Sshhh... don't tell anyone.
It's socially unacceptable that I express pain.

Monday, 15 February 2010


Deanna, what's the matter?
I... I...
You keep looking out the window. What are you waiting for?
I keep wishing for him to reappear. I look down, to that corner of that street, by the green gate, and I can almost see him walking along. Then, he'll spot me at the window, and wave up at me, or flash me one of his flawless smiles, and then he would run up to the door, up the stairs to the attic where I had waited, and he would... he would sweep me off my feet and take me away. But no matter how hard I look, no matter what time of day it is, or where I go, or what I do, he's not there... I ....

And I danced. I danced my heart out for him.
For you. Because you're not here. And that's not okay. Not for me. But its what I have to live with. What I'll always have to live with. So I dance. I dance it all away.

Thursday, 11 February 2010

Nothing but trouble...

I don't really know what the fuck I was thinking, writing a blog in the first place. And then giving it to you to read. Because I knew damn well that it would hurt you. And yet, I still carried on with it, still wrote more, knowing it was tearing you up, knowing all that because you had said so. I didn't have to write anymore. I could've ended it once I found - dare I speak his name around you anymore - Stuart. But no, I carried on, I became addicted to writing my life on the net; in the process, I've forgotten how much you really meant to me. I knew what I was doing, I wasn't intoxicated when I wrote all those things and said all that stuff, I wasn't on drugs or high on any sort of emotion. I was completely sane, completely aware of the words I was speaking. I knew. So I built your hopes up, so, so high, by pouring all of this truth from my soul about how much I needed you. Because it was true. And it still is true. Maybe it doesn't look that way. But it is. And you know what? Be mad at me. Scream at me. Because, in spite of everything you've ever done for me, I repay you by doing... this. Everything on this blog, most would call art. Most would praise. Most would become entranced reading it. All I see, looking back on the whole thing, is a monster. A complete and utter monster. Its so frustrating. I knew what I was doing... I knew the consequences... but I still did it.
What. An. Idiot.
I don't have anything more to say to myself. I'm too mad at myself, too frustrated, too annoyed and too pissed off at myself. Because I was stupid. To the highest degree. I can't change it. The only thing I could do would be to run away.
Sounds good to me.
I'll fucking go now.

Gotta love my mother.

My mother said something rather intriguing the other day. she said:

"There will come a time when you will not be so tolerant."

I wanted to ask her what she meant, and how on Earth it related back to Stuart. But she told me to figure it out for myself.
I think I know what she means now. Because she said that after I told her that he wasn't coming over that day. She means that, maybe I won't want to wait for him forever. I'm fine about waiting till next weekend now, but what about in three months time? Or a year? Ten years? Will I want to wait then, when there are other people I could have? I see where she's coming from, and its the first time she's said it aloud, because normally I go off on one at her for dissing my relationship. I am okay about waiting. Maybe I'll be moody all week, but I'm okay about it. I asked for this. I'm the one in theatre, with the hectic schedule. I didn't have to choose this life, I could've been normal, got a normal job, lived a normal life. But maybe, if I'd done all that, I wouldn't have met Stuart. And I certainly wouldn't have met Hugo, or Sam, or Demii. So my life has its pros, and its cons.
Maybe more cons than pros.
But while the pros are few, they are large :)
That has to be a good thing!
-D xox

Sunday, 7 February 2010

Lucky is all I can be.

I spent my day, wrapped in your arms. I was safe there, I felt your heart beat there; the rhythm my soul dances to. Today, I remembered why I fell in love with you. We sat there, and we had a good laugh. A really good laugh. We messed around, we acted like ourselves. I wasn't afraid to hurt you. I wasn't afraid you would walk out on me. When you text me, I'm sitting there smiling at my phone because it says your name and 'one new message' in the box. After six months, you still give me butterflies. That means something to me. That means something, because no one has ever done this to me before. I eat, drink, sleep and breathe you. And the most memorable part of my day? You said that your friends think you're really lucky. They ask if I have any mates for them, or they tell you that I'm a keeper, or they'll ask you how you managed to get me. The irony in all that is; you're not the lucky one in this relationship. By far, I am the luckier of the two. You might say that Sam is missing out, and lost out in the long run by losing me. You might call me beautiful, and tell me I'm not fat; but the truth is, I'm no prettier than some of your other friends. Nor am I any skinnier, or smarter, or funnier. I just was just in the right place at the right time. I'm lucky though. Look at you. You're like a God. I won't even try to ruin you with words. I will just say this:
Forget everyone else who has ever held a claim to my heart.
Because after today, I will not and cannot think of anybody else but you.
Love, Your Deanna. :) xx

Friday, 5 February 2010

Falling into your gravity...

I dreamt of you again. Except, this time was different from before. You were behind me, pressing against me. You whispered something in my ear which I can' recall exactly; it was something along the lines of 'nothing makes me feel this good.' It made me turn around to face you. And in that second, I kissed you. Really kissed you. No protesting thoughts of Stuart or feelings of guilt, only the fluttering of butterflies in the depths of my stomach. Then, when you didn't pull away, my hand, once limp at my side, found yours and my fingers became laced between yours. This, unfortunately, was the point at which I awoke. Not as much actually happened in this dream as in the last one with you, but this one was far more intense than the last. And when I woke, I was genuinely confused. Not guilty, not sad, not shocked: confused. Because I did not imagine those butterflies. They were very real. And when I saw you today, I felt those butterflies again. I remembered what it was like to kiss you, to hold your hand. For someone who has never kissed a girl, you were pretty damn good at it in my dream. But my only dilemma is; you don't love me back. If you did, it would be great.
Maybe I would come running.
But for now, all I have is my dreams to keep me warm...
-D. xox

Monday, 1 February 2010

You were never sorry.

The café buzzed with a sense of relaxation. The smell of strong, brewed coffee filled the air, along with the faint smells of perfume, freshly baked cookies and soft, luscious pastries. The scene outside was a dismal one: rain thundered down on the tiled roofs of the trading stores and the umbrellas of weary shoppers. The young people walked with fatigue-stricken steps; rosy cheeks and lips showing signs of the heat they felt struggling uphill, despite the cold spring morning. The elderly walked with smiles on their wrinkled faces; the hands of age already touching and pinching at their frail skin. It was a nice morning. A nice picture.

Yet, here I sit, waiting for you. I've been waiting, coffee - once hot, now freezing in my hand, because you can't be asked to turn up to lunch on time. Forty-five minutes is hardly being fashionably late. And I know exactly where you are. But lets not worry about that yet. I'll just simmer away, waiting for you to show your face.

Finally, you show up. Your beautiful bronze hair, normally tousled and shimmering now soaked through from the rain. You have one of those beautiful crooked smiles on your face. The exact one you know would normally melt my heart.
Not this time.

'I'm so sorry I'm late, I got stuck in the -'
'I don't want to hear it,' I say with a warm smile on my face. You soften slightly as I smile.
I say with the biggest, warmest smile on my face, before you can say another word:
'I know about you and Becca. And you and your cousin.'

Your face drops. 'I can explain...'
'No. I'm sorry, but you messed with me. You messed me around, you messed with my best friend. That was your one chance. You blew it. So I'm sorry for ever falling into your seductive trap. And I'm sorry I ever met you.'
I get up, get my cold cup of coffee, and pour it over your head.
Then, without one look back, I walk out.

Saturday, 30 January 2010


He's arrogant,
and self-centered,
and mean most of the time,
but then you get those moments,
where he'll stop and smile at you,
or he'll wink at you from across the room,
or laugh with you,
or smile,
and he becomes someone totally different.
He's that person, who, through everything,
will remain unchanged.
He's that person who I'll always rely on to be there,
to brighten up my day,
if only for a few precious hours.
he's the one who I feel I want to look pretty for,
and the one I love to joke around with.
He's the one who will look at me,
and he'll be so close,
but never really in my reach.
He'll talk to me,
so close that I could kiss him right then,
but just as I'm about to tell him how I feel,
he'll turn and walk away,
almost as if he knows what's coming,
but he just can't bear to hear it.
He'll just... turn,
and walk away,
and carry on,

Thursday, 28 January 2010

You stupid, stupid idiot.

You make me so mad. I don't understand how you can be so openly hateful towards someone you've never even met. Okay, he might not appeal to your taste; fair enough, everyone is different. But there is no reason to put him down so much and tell me what I should and should not feel for him. Maybe, in your eyes, he's not good enough for me. In mine, he's too good for me. Maybe, in your eyes, he's a 'fugly chav.' In mine, he's a beautiful angel. Maybe, in your eyes, he's not intelligent enough. In mine, he is utterly perfect. Ad then you have the utter audacity to say that you know what kind of person I should be with. Sorry, I hate to rain on your arsey parade, but you've known me how long? Three, four months? You have no idea what kind of person I like. Demii and my mother agree that he's good for me. Its funny; I thought that friends were supposed to be happy for you, or at least act it. But you don't do either. All you seem to be trying to do is break us up. And then, you have the sheer arrogance to completely slag me off. I tell you my biggest secret, thinking you'll understand. But then you go all judgemental on me, calling me all those hurtful things, telling me that its stupid. Have you been there? So low, that you can't do anything and you have nowhere to go? To the point where you don't know how to make the pain stop? You do not understand, and you never will. And then, and this is the richest part, you try to make it all about you, saying that your life has been hard too, far harder than my unimportant, worthless life. Of course, it has to be all about you. I seem to always forget that part. I feel slightly important when you ask me for help, or you talk to me. But then when I try to help, or try to talk to you, you tell me I'm wrong after seeking my help and start arguments when you talk to me. Its like you always have to be right. Why? Why ask me for help, and then make me feel small and stupid by not listening to what I'm trying to tell you? I'm sorry that I'm younger than you, female, and smarter (not that its difficult). And my life is actually more interesting and much better than yours. You're annoying as hell, and you never shut that big mouth of yours. You may be fairly good looking, but your atitude and personality stink. They make you so unattractive. Its such a shame, because you have your moments where you're half decent. But then you slip back into that bitchy, self-centered state. I feel sorry for you. Really, I do. But I'm not going to waste any more typing energy on you. You stupid, low-lying, judgemental, self-centered, arrogant twat. You messed up your one chance with me. And let me tell you, its not ever coming back.

Friday, 22 January 2010


Danielle is a young girl, in love with a boy called Peter. He is kind, caring and funny, and they form a special bond. Peter, however, is very secretive about his life. He helps Danielle in any way possible, unaware that she is in love with him. Two years after their first meeting, Peter leaves, with no explanation as to why. Heartbroken, Danielle has nowhere to turn to. Her life passes in a blur for the next year as she tries to come to terms with Peter's absence. Then she finds Sam, and life becomes good again. Then she hears of Peter living in California, and all those memories of him come flooding back to her. Since, she has not been able to stop thinking of him. Ironic, really; she thinks he is in America, but he is only 65 miles away in London. This scene is two monologues running alongside each other; Danielle is in red and Peter is in green. Lines spoken together are in blue. Both are in separate places. It occurs while Danielle is in a relationship with Sam.
* * *
Danielle is in her room, laying in her bed, unable to sleep. Peter is racing through her head. She can't stop thinking about him.
Peter is laying in bed, also unable to sleep, thinking of Danielle. He came back from America to find her.

I can't stop thinking about Peter.
I can't stop thinking about Danielle.
I wonder what he's thinking right now. One things for sure, its not me; I don't ever think he loved me.
I wonder how she's doing. After I left, did she move on? I can't believe in all the time I had with her, I never -
I can't believe I searched him on bloody Google. What an idiot. I was asking for trouble. And now he has a site, and he's in the States, and -
What compelled me to search her on Google? And then I find that... blog thing. I don't believe how much I hurt her.
Let's face facts; he was just a friend, and he was no other way inclined. I wish I could pluck up the courage to send that -
One letter. That's all I would want, to know how she's getting on. But where would she send it? The States address is no good now; not since I moved back to -
Clara said he actually never left. How weird is that? What I wouldn't give to see him one last time. To know if he ever -
I wonder if she thinks of me like I think of her. I never stopped thinking of her since I found that blog, and the post, called -
'The final letter' was about him.
To me.
Maybe, right now, he is thinking of me. Whatever he's thinking, it can't be good after the way I -
Treated her so badly. She poured out her heart and soul and -
All he ever gave me was 'I'm fine'. Nothing more, nor anything less. I remember, he played me -
That Chris Brown song. "With You". Did she not realise I was trying to tell her how I felt through his lyrics?
That song still makes me cry. It was never an official thing, but -
I used to call it 'Our song' when she wasn't around.
I miss him.
I love her. Imagine how it must've hurt her when -
He talked about his girlfriends all the time. It cut me up inside.
She used to talk about Mark all the time. He treated her like shit! I always told her -
"You're too good for him," he always told me. But that -
Was always true. I tried to tell her. But -
I would never listen. I was stupid. Because he was right. And then he left, and I never explained -
How I felt about her.
About us.
I want to see her, just one more time.
But what if it drags up all those old feelings again? He won't drop everything and magically reappear from America for me.
What if she's moved on and I hurt her and ruin her life all over again?
I'm so stupid.
I'm so stupid.
I've missed all my chances.
I've missed all my chances.
I wonder if (s)he's thinking of me right now?
Nah, that could never happen. He got what he wanted; an agent in the States. I was just one of the little people he had to step on along the way.
I hope she is. I don't want her to forget me. She told me not to forget her, so I didn't. How could I?
I bet he's happy as a King, with a beautiful woman melting off his arm. I don't and never did deserve him.
I don't and never did deserve her. She's probably forgotten what I look like by now. But I'll never forget her face. Her eyes.
His hair.
Her lips.
His smile.
Her laugh.
His arms.
Her sad eyes when she looked away.
His vacant expression when asked a question he didn't want to answer.
Her tendency to walk on tiptoes.
His flat feet when he tapped.
Her poetry. I wonder if she still writes it.
I wonder where he is.
I have got to find her.