Myself as The Artist

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic
A little bit I wrote one day about "Adonis" as I call him.

Submitted: April 27, 2008

A A A | A A A

Submitted: April 27, 2008



The first time she saw him, she turned away. His eyes were so beautiful. He was too good for her and she knew it. She couldn’t fall in love with him. She swore she wouldn’t let herself. She hated being in love, making herself sick over someone who cared nothing about her.

Then they became friends. He was amazing. He was funny, he was smart, he was politically incorrect. No one else could make her laugh so hard. Every time he looked at her with those gorgeous eyes, she melted. But she’d never let him know that.

She stared at him every chance she got, analyzing his every feature so she could sketch it down later. She had thousands of drawings of him. His hands, his face, and his eyes. Especially his eyes. One night, she sat alone, drawing him. She dropped her pencil and began to cry. It had happened. She loved him. She loved everything about him. She wanted nothing more than to hold him and never let go. But it could never happen. She knew that.

Every time he made her laugh it was bittersweet, and now every smile he brought to her lips brought tears to her eyes later. She didn’t want to love him. She never wanted any of this to happen.

She sat in the dark at night, sobbing and carving his name into her skin. It was the only way she could ever be close to him. She couldnt bear to draw him anymore without crying. She couldnt sleep at night. And she couldn’t tell anyone how she felt. So the blood ran red down her arms and onto her pages of useless drawings and poems.

She still loves him. She thinks he’s beautiful. But she knows she doesnt deserve him. She doesnt deserve him because he is smart and funny and wonderful. And beautiful, so beautiful. She doesnt deserve him, because he is all of those things, and she is stupid and dull and a horrible person. And she is ugly, so ugly. She hates herself for being so unbearable. Sometimes she gets out her sketchbook and draws his hands, his lips, but never his eyes. She just can’t bring herself to do it. She doesnt even deserve to create beautiful things. And she still hides behind elaborate stories such as this one, rather than even hint to him how she feels. because she is afraid he might want her.

And I don’t deserve to be wanted.

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