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About Deviant Lady MoosebrawnFemale/Unknown Recent Activity
Deviant for 3 Years
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different now, better than
but things were different then
and different than
how I saw you today
with our girl in your arms
and you're better now
better now than ever
better now that you've
learned not to smoke
I've prayed and
I've hoped for this day
and things are different now
now that you're home
we're no longer alone
and your smiles still promise
a different now
a better now
now that we're a family
things are how
they're supposed to be
and you and I
are better than before
and I'll never say
that things were better then
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 0
Waiting on the Fisherman
the ships sail every day
and they come back
the fish need company
I need you back
we made it all the way
back from the brink
we've found a harmony
can't even blink
does God know who he sends?
or is he blind?
am I seeing the end?
losing my mind?
storm in the distance
a sailor falls
disbelief, resistance
can't help them all
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0
High Points
I still
 hide under the bed or
 on the bookshelf
 watch from shadow
There are days
 they don't see me at all
Isn't it funny how you can
grow up in one way and
shrink down in others? Like
I can do my own taxes, but
nevermind facing that mirror
even just to brush my hair
I'm covered in cobwebs right now
watching them go about their lives
the tops of their heads
as familiar to me as their faces
If he finds me, I'll shrink back
bare my teeth
and wish I could let him pull me down
Because yesterday, I
shared a bed with those arms
without even a shiver
Last week we
went to the doctor
and I didn't even cry
But I'm still
 on the bookshelf
 on top of the 'fridge
 in the bathroom cupboard
and I still hide under the bed
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 2
Sun-kissed :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 1
He loves you, so I'll love you too
And it's not about jealousy
or sharing
or doing the right thing
It's about the way that he broke when he saw you
walk through that door
I bet
he looked just the same when you walked out
so many years ago
he let you into his heart and kept you
wept for you and your soulless eyes
and when you were gone
he still held on
to that poor echo you left behind
And he still loves you
the same as he still loved me
and he'll fall after you like a puppet on strings
pulling me right behind him
And I will love you like we've shared cigarettes
watched the sun rise over a smoggy city
And it will kill me when you say goodbye,
disappearing the same way that smog died down to daylight
on chilly Autumn nights
I will love you just the same
So crawl up in my chest and rot there
fester in my heart,
infect me
leave me gasping for breath
tear me apart with your
loving embrace
I'll let you.
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0
Pack :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0 Rejuvenation :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 1
the second
I did not guard my heart
no, I did not turn away
did not keep myself safe
No, I did not
turn a blind eye
did not don extra layers but
chose silk and bright colors and you
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 2 0
and I'm sorry
The softer side of you is riddled with holes. You left it in the closet, dark and neglected for so long. I think mice got into it. There were a lot of mice in our old bedroom. You'll probably laugh when you hear it, but I liked to call that place my childhood, now. Remember when we used to play in there? Not in the closet - there were monsters in there - but in that little room, with those two beds crammed in on either side. Seems like just yesterday. Seems like a million years ago.
When we were little, it seemed a lot bigger. So did that closet. We used to stuff everything in there, remember? When I quit ballet and you said you wouldn't do it without me, we just put all our tutus and dance shoes and little pink leotards right in there. We shut the door and we never looked back - not until you stole Avery Challen's baseball mitt and hid it in there before Daddy could come and find it.
Daddy never went in that closet. I think he was scared of what was in there, too. I think that, maybe,
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0
When he leaves, he leaves her alone. She knows it won't before long, but the thought scares her all the same. What scares her even more than being alone, though, is the thought of the company she'll soon keep. In a little under twenty minutes, Jordan Kingfisher will be here to watch over her. He is the ghost that has haunted her for half a decade, and more than anything else, she wonders what she will say to him.
When he gets there, she can't even look at him. She opens the door with a squeak and quickly retreats back into the darkness of Lucas's office.
Jo's voice rings out from the den. "Babydoll? Where'd you go? I can't see. It's dark," he calls, his voice soft and muted even as it reaches her ears. She calls it charisma, but in her heart, she thinks it a kind of magic. Tentatively, she comes out of her hiding place, laptop clutched in front of her chest like a sort of shield. When she enters the room, his head swings toward her, blind eyes finding her even though she hardly makes a
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0
Her skin is ash, pale and velveteen, and I can see her bones like two toothpicks in her wrists.
"Mara," she breathes, and the word rattles like gravel in her lungs.
She is not a twin anymore. Her hair is blond, white as sunlight, and her eyes are dull and broken.
"She's alive," Jojo had said, terse and unhappy, his voice crackling over the phone. And she is alive, but that's all she is.
Breathing, heat beating, blood still pumping through her veins. But that is all.
And there are tears in her eyes, sticky and black as they run down her powdered cheeks, and my sister does not weep. She kicks and screams and bares her teeth, and the woman before me does not.
She crumbles, burnt and brittle. Shatters, like the surface of a lake and I am the rock that is tossed into that murky green water, the moon dancing into oblivion in those violent waves.
She's a stranger, willow-thin, and I know her by the swing of her hips, the arch of her foot, the freckle on her shoulder, but she is
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 0
How he met their mother :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 0 Leaving Home :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 0 looking at daddy :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0 Mister Big :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0 Shepherd man :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 0


They both have scars.

Shep could never tell you where he got them all. They're as numerous and ever-changing as the waves in the ocean. Solomon will see a fresh wound on Monday that'll scar by Sunday, and then by that time the next month, be entirely forgotten. There are major ones, of course, for which Shep can usually recall the cause and approximate date of injury, but it still seems like the more marks he gets, the less he remembers the ones he already has, until it all bleeds together and he just sighs, exasperated: "Just my skin, Sol. Gotta lotta marks on me. Just how it is."

Solomon's never understood that -- How easily he forgets his own body and how easily his body forgets. Because Solomon's scars don't fade. He has a dark indentation on his heel from the day he was born, when the doctors were frantic to check his blood type, afraid he'd poisoned his mother just by being born. There's a wide, crescent-shaped line of pale, stiff skin stretched across his forearm, because when he was just a boy, no older than five years old, a stray dog had taken a bite out of him that'd nearly cost him his life.

The rest are old wounds from his early days of training, and many are marks left behind by those he'd been ordered to kill, or sometimes by those ordered to kill him. But no matter how they'd gotten there, no mark -- once left -- had ever faded, and they remain on his skin like a testament to his hardiness, his luck, his will to survive. He's like a museum of look-but-don't-touch, because over a decade of leave-not-even-fingerprints has left him far from familiar with skin-on-skin contact. He guards his body and the secrets written all over it, each pale, stiff line matching a case file, an incident report, a debriefing statement he'd been forced to give between finishing a job and passing out on his couch the second he locked the door behind him. And all of the marks on his body, including four tattoos, a birthmark, and a lonely mole on his left shoulder, are documented in a file labeled: "113678: Saint James, Solomon".

The file resides in his family's archives, but there's an up-to-date version that is kept in his father's home office. He's read it before. Eye color: Green. Hair color: Light brown. Height: 179 centimeters. Weight:140 kilograms. Distinguishing features: The list grows every time he reads it.

He wonders sometimes, lying awake at night, how it would feel not to know. There's a lot he's learned about himself from reading those files, seeing those mistakes jump out at him as though he's living the attack once more. He can see his weaknesses detailed in those little black-and-white words on paper and the pale lines on his flesh. He can see his preferences -- the way he protects his left side before his right, a habit his father has long given up trying to break him of. It speaks at length of his determination, with some reports recalling injury after grievous injury before the job got done and some outlining attacks and one-on-one battles that he should not have walked away from. There are hospital bills that take up drawer after drawer, and in them are tales of thirty-two stitches placed to knit his muscles back together, holes drilled into his skull to keep his brain from exploding, week-long life support to keep him alive during comas no one thought he'd wake up from. It's all there. Everything he's done, everything he is. It's all down in ink and flesh.

So how is it that he has no idea who he is when Shep seems so self-assured? There's a day from his youth that he very clearly recalls. It took place during that summer when the girls were just turning thirteen, and Solomon must've been about twenty-two, but he feels like he was so much younger.

"S'yer favorite color, Sol?" Shep had asked, seemingly out of the blue. It hadn't been. The girls had been talking about it, having just gotten permission to paint their room whatever color they liked. Sol knows that Shep likes powder blue, June likes pink, and Lily likes green. He knows because they've told him, and not for any other reason.

Solomon didn't know how to answer. As a rule, he tries very hard not to make personal statements, preferring to speak more generally when at all possible. Saying 'This is probably a bad idea' instead of 'I think this is a bad idea' gives one a lot more leeway when it comes to responsibility, and being accountable to one's words. There's something about words like 'my' and 'I' that've always frightened him beyond all reason. He feels as though anything he attaches that little word to becomes something people can hold him to. So he's never said anything along the lines of 'I like the color blue' or 'My favorite color is pink' or even 'I think green is alright'. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes it has more to do with not having one than not wanting to own up to it. That train of thought just leads to more questions that he's suddenly throwing at himself without Shep's usual prompting, and he realizes that along with the absence of a favorite color, he has no idea what his favorite food is, either. He doesn't know whether he likes dogs or cats. He can't tell the difference between hard rock and country.

When he really stop to examine himself, he realizes he's so much more than what's written in those files, than the marks scattered like ancient relics across a body that is starting to seem more like a tomb than a museum. When he really stops to examine himself, he realizes those files don't say much about him at all.

But if it isn't written down -- if he can't go back and read it, see it with his own eyes, feel the scar tissue pull every time he moves -- how is he supposed to know? A dog bite is real. A favorite color is something he can't even fathom, because what is it about powder blue that makes it so much better than pink or green? Solomon doesn't know, and he doesn't think he's likely to find out.


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exDerelict Featured By Owner Nov 23, 2014
A piece of cake for a lovely girl
but its sweetness will never compare
To Her charming wit and Her silly ways
LupaRomana Featured By Owner Nov 26, 2014
Aw, thank you, Dere <3 I'll enjoy this cake, but you'll always be the sweetest!
Abolling Featured By Owner Nov 7, 2014  Professional Traditional Artist
Thank you for the Fave =)
spaztic-one Featured By Owner Oct 2, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the Watch :D
SuddenlyAutumn Featured By Owner Aug 18, 2014
thank you so much for the watch :love:
ArtKat9 Featured By Owner May 9, 2014  Student General Artist
thank you for the fav <33
ArtProducer95 Featured By Owner Mar 31, 2014  Hobbyist Digital Artist
Thank you for the watch :D
Kawaii-Artist28089 Featured By Owner Feb 27, 2014
Thank you For The Watch Lupa!
ThisGoose Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2014
Thank you for the favourite!
HydromelKing Featured By Owner Jan 28, 2014  Hobbyist General Artist
Thanks for the fave ! :)
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