Listen up: The secret is out.

There's life after Paris,
but I won't let Paris leave me.

I'll carry Paris in my pocket,
make shoes out of Paris.

Paris will leave behind footprints in the shape of the Eiffel Tower,
& the sound of busy street vendors.

Paris is my home.
Paris is my life.

Paris brought me hope & Paris brought me words.
I found Paris in a classroom.
I found red sweaters & tolerance & good hair in Paris.

Au Revoir, I'll be back.
Paris can't get rid of me that easily.




Here's the truth. I have always been Emma Swan, Emma Swan has always been me: Rachel. 


If you miss me, I'll be here.

I'm breathing; I am alive.

I want to write about you, and I want to write about something tangible, but this one, this one's about me.

This is about Heaven & Hell. It's about the things I think about at night; this is about how I've never been on a real picnic.

This is about hallways. It's about the hallways my feet have become familiar with, the paths I walk every day, and the tiles that know me by name. It's about the mirrors I avoid, and how I never know what to do with my hands.

This is about books. It's about the library shelves and the smell of pages full of stories. If you really knew me, you'd know the books are where I belong.

This is about home. (Wherever that may be.) It's about the room I call my own, and the textured ceiling that makes me think of feathers. If you really knew me, you'd know I spend a lot of time looking at that ceiling; you'd know I am the borderline of insomnia.

This is about my secrets that I can't tell you. It's about the ones I want to tell you, to throw the words onto somebody else, to get them out of my head. It's about the cousin that hates me, and the aunts that ignore me. It's about how my parents aren't as proud of me as I'd like. (I'm sorry I can't be the person you want me to be.) This is about my family.

This is about Paris, France. It's about the longing I feel for it, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc d'Triomphe. "Bonjour, madamoiselle." This is about the gardens I want to wander, and the hand I want to hold. "C'est l'amour?"

"Je ne sais pas."

This is about zodiac signs. I'm a Libra and I'm afraid of heights.

This is about hands. It's about my hands that struggle to grasp anything real. It's about how your hands would fit perfectly in mine.

This is about anxiety. If you really knew me, you'd know I am the definition of anxiety. This one's about elevators, and empty stairwells, and dark hallways; pitch black. It's about anxiety and my brain.

This is about the future. And how I don't know what to do with myself. This is about how you think I've got it all figured out. This is the truth dear: I don't. If you really knew me, you'd know all the things I love don't pay the rent; I don't know what I'm going to do.

This is about the past. It's about all the people that changed, and all the ones that didn't. If you really knew me, you'd know that the past year and half, it's been my personal Hell. This is about change.

This is about my heart. It's about the place in my chest where blood pumps, and aching is felt. It's about how my heart is raining; I can't remember where I put the umbrella.

And this, this one's about me.

You are the pathway to Heaven, and the road to Hell.

I don't know how you can be both, yet you are. That's all I believe in.

Heaven is Calling.

This is about Emma. It's about her heart that felt heavy as a brick, and her fingers that slide along smooth, white colored walls occasionally. Her bed is the color of a warm day with a breeze, and her room resides in a basement. There's a guitar propped up in the corner, but she hasn't played it in ages. Maybe she forgot how to.

Her bones are fragile, and her aunt tells her she's strange because she reads a lot. (Also, her aunt doesn't like her much, but you can figure that one out.) If you looked inside her purse, you'd find a box of mints in Wintergreen flavor, a couple black pens, The Catcher in the Rye, a few crumpled receipts, a floral patterned wallet, and her thoughts on Hell.

Once, she fell in love with a boy, but that's a different story that ends in tragedy and tear stained pillowcases. Unrequited love isn't a very good friend.

She's indecisive, and not very good with stressful situations. She runs from them, and never looks back. She's a dreamer with a bad case of tripping in the hallways.


One day, she'll look out her window, and she'll discover a weeping willow in her backyard, one that was never there before. With her curiosity getting the best of her, she'll leave the house in bare feet and a sundress, to part the leaves of the majestic tree, and find everything she'd ever wanted.


*Questions:
-Will she ever come back?
-What's waiting for her in the branches?
-Is this what her heart truly desired?