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?

Breaking News

The insomnia slowly creeps in on the edges of my brain, every night. It causes me to stare at the ceiling, stare at the blankets, stare at the door. I end up thinking about life, death, and if God believes in me or not.

Then I think about you.

And I'll get up in the morning, and you'll say, "How are you?"

And I'll lie, "I'm good, how are you?"

You won't call me out on the lie, because you never do, you never do.

I don't want to get upset at you, and I'll go about my day pretending I'm fine, because I told you I was.

I told you I was fine, and I'm not.

I'm slowly breaking apart inside, and I'm thinking about Heaven and Hell, and I'm thinking about God.

I'm thinking about if you're wondering what I'm doing, and how you feel about me.

I want to know how you feel about me.

But I'm worried and I'm anxious and I'm good at hiding it.

I don't know how I'll feel in the morning, or even in the next hour.

Yet in that time, I know I'll be thinking about you, and your hair, because your hair is good and your hair looks nice with the light shining on it, just like that. Don't ever move, your hair looks good.

During my 2nd period class, I'll wonder what you're doing, and I'll wonder if the light is still hitting your face, and I'll wonder what you're doing this weekend.

I don't know what you'll be doing, but I know what I'll be doing.

I'll be lying awake at night, replaying the conversations I've had with you, over and over and over again.

"How are you?"

"I'm good, How are you?"

Only Reason

Only Reason

Dear Harriette,

He goes to church. 

But I don't

I don't.

But make him happy,

Contemplate whether there's a future.

Dear Harriette,

After intense thinking,

It is dangerous.

Satellites & Spacedust

That satellite might make me nervous, and space dust might stress me out more than I want it to. All I know is Heaven and Hell; you can't change me.

I hope you understand why I'm pushing you away. I hope you realize the reasons I'm fascinated with the ceiling of my car, and the floor mats under my feet. The door I'm shoving you through, well dear, I changed the locks; bury that key you have. It doesn't matter anymore.

You're the thing that makes my skin crawl, because of you, the hooks on my wall have all fallen down, they were heavy with the baggage you asked me to carry up the stairs. Guess what? The baggage never made it that far. It wasn't meant to. 

You're out the door, I'm throwing the baggage on the street, I'm banishing you from this house; I'm learning to trust the satellite floating high above my head, floating among the stars. Sometimes, I stare through the telescope my heart lent me, and I watch the satellite. I watch it floating through space and I make a wish on it. (Yes, you heard me dear, I wish on satellites.)

Heaven and Hell will have to wait, because I'm watching satellites, and I'm waiting on space dust. I'm locking my door, and I'm never letting you back in.