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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
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 by LupaRomana Sun-kissed :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 1 Pack by LupaRomana Pack :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 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
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
Leaving Home by LupaRomana Leaving Home :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 0 looking at daddy by LupaRomana looking at daddy :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0 Shepherd man by LupaRomana Shepherd man :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 1 0 Shepherd boy by LupaRomana Shepherd boy :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0 Forever by LupaRomana Forever :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0 Sisterly Rivalry by LupaRomana Sisterly Rivalry :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0 Brothers in Arms by LupaRomana Brothers in Arms :iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0
The Eyes of the Storm
I remember you
and the smell of
ash and thunderstorms
you became a petal
in the soot-darkened breeze
I remember the sound
of the sunset
being ridden into by a
black metal horse
your eyes were bright
and laughing
you looked over your shoulder
and then never again
I remember when you
didn't say goodbye
the stars in your teeth
biting and harsh
but still smiling
your mouth was red
and you bled out a sunset
too violent to be remembered
too violent to forget
I remember the taste
of the salt and green sea creatures
that lived in your heart
that weaved your veins into a
net of thunder
electricity singing in every pulse
there was nothing
so charred and blackened as your soul
you've still got a little
lightening in you
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0
Our Father
He lives just down the hall
At night, his heavy breaths fall on
ears muffled by the dark. The
life of the house
a heartbeat
in the walls
He greets us in the morning
my child,
sweet girl,

He kisses our cheeks, our pains
Daughter, did you
scrap your knee? Let
me see

His face is red
but unashamed
his eyes are wet
without sadness
When he laughs, his belly
His good humor reaches
every corner of this house
rocks the hinges of the doors
rattles windowpanes
we are all children
in his eyes
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 0 0
Queen of the Derelict
For She,
who cries for the broken
a lover of lost souls
she joins hands with the timid
whispers words of comfort
into wounded-rabbit ears
in life she is humble
a place of rest, a refuge
soft and comely in spirit
warm and bright in times of need
she is the lady of gentle smiles
she bestows them upon the weak
compassion is in her heart
and understanding
twined into her nature
she weeps at your pains
cries out at your misery
she knows
she knows the heartache you feel
knows it deep in her bones
has felt it rankle in her soul
has tasted it sour in her meals
has watched it burn in her daily life
she kneels with the hopeless
and tells them to go on
she paces with the restless
and tells them there is peace
she laments with the lonely
and tells them they are not alone
For She,
the feeler of every pain,
has walked a mile in your shoes
has learned what you need to learn
she reaches out to you
passionate and true
she tells you to
wait until tomorrow
when the sun is bright and clean
:iconluparomana:LupaRomana 3 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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