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About Deviant Rachel LemashovFemale/United States Recent Activity
Deviant for 8 Years
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Newest Deviations

Literature
paris and troy
When she met him, he had a ring around his finger that he never took off. When she realized it was etched into his skin, ink as permanent as his existence, she asked if he was married. He laughed.
The ink said "Helen," woven into a ring by his knuckle, and he told that Helen was the love of his life. She wanted to be jealous, she wanted to feel resentful, but he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hair while he told her the story of Helen, Queen of Mycenaean Sparta, and a love so fierce that Paris fought a war to keep her.
"So many things in life are mediocre," he told her while her fingers traced the tattoo. "Helen reminds me that love should never be one of them."
She didn't know the exact moment that she fell in love with Jonah, but if there was one, that was it.
=====
When the new boy on her couch asked her about her tattoo, he asked her if she had traveled to Paris or studied abroad in school. Maybe it was the way he had assumed her motivation, maybe it was because the ink was
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Literature
this is harder than ''i'm sorry''
I know I'm the last person you'd expect to hear from
but the way you used to say my name is impossible to forget:
like a secret. Like a lifeline. Like I was the only thing keeping you tethered to this world.
And I know we drifted apart. I pushed you out to sea without a thought of where the swells would take you, or what monsters the waves would wash up on your shorelines.
But I swear, I'm not the person I was. And I don't think you're the girl you were.
I think you liked yourself better when you were seen through my eyes, when every conversation was a love note I wrote you with my voice. You used to find yourself so much more exciting, but to me, you were goddamn electric.
Now I'm not asking you to come back into my arms or my heart or my sheets, but I'm begging you to come back into my life. My sentences were more eloquent and my words were much more confident when I knew you were in my audience. It's a sickness, this thing that pushes my pen to paper, that implores me to write, but
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Literature
Newtown
It's a Saturday night, and they're shuffling their feet outisde Starbucks, cigarettes tucked into their lips, workng on their third round of free refills. It's fucking freezing, and I can see my breath as she walks back up to the group, a fresh coat of red lipstick painted on her face. The smears beneath are just visible on her chin.
She tells me she gives blowjobs in the parking lot out back to half the cops and almost every guy she knows. She says this like a badge of honor while she fumbles for her pack, and a guy in an Armani jacket cradles a flame between calloused palms and stained, cracked nails for her. She takes an appreciative puff before she tells me that her paycheck supports her habits, and the sex pays for her food. She tells me that she's addicted to coffee and cigarettes, but shoots crystal and dope for the taste. She's talking to me, and I notice that her eyes are like needles, but her teeth are barely stained. She's feedling me lines, and I'm realizing that she's not
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Literature
sciamachy
i.
i buried a boy late last summer and
let the cicadas sing his worries to sleep before i
covered his bones with the maple's fall leaves;
he was silent and pale beneath their amber colors
ii.
winter crept over us like a shadow and
every night i shivered with my secrets for warmth;
i kept my windows closed but his howling
on the wind begged for my touch
iii.
i thawed my heart on a clothesline in may
let a new body into my bed; i kissed its spine
until i understood the language of its thighs and sighs
and forgot the spice of his breath on my tongue
iv.
there is a starling outside my bedroom who built
a nest in my gutter and hatched chicks like treasures;
their coos echo in the morning and when i was half-asleep
i swore their feathers shone like his hair in the rising sun
v.
summer roared with the thunderstorms until
lightning struck the stars from the skies; her words
fell hushed when i pushed the earth from his limbs
and breathed life back into his shoreline eyes
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:iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 34 7
Literature
these roads we travel
You could've been the girl who changed me.
I've fallen down and fallen apart enough times that it gets hard to remember, but sometimes I study my scars in the sunlight and trace the patterns back through time. I spend my mornings living in memories, reliving the places I've scuffed myself, and I've found that romance is better in hindsight. Her kisses are sweeter tinged with nostalgia, and it almost feels like I'm whole again when I'm thinking of the dents she put in my pulse and smoothing out the wrinkles she left in my resolve. For a moment, there's equilibrium, but then the sun is setting and I'm disoriented, dropping fragments of myself between cracks in the sidewalk I'm following down the street and towards an independent sunset. I'm standing on the corner and waiting for the light to turn, and you show up with a wayward smile cradled in your fingers. You press it into my grasp and I'm thinking maybe I've spent too much time looking at my flaws instead of my potential.
You could h
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new me. by SocraticSynapses new me. :iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 2 18
Literature
exhale
i loved you in stolen glances
in individual moments i wrapped up in eager dreams
waiting for a hushed smile that never came
but reflected itself in the midnight rain of my bedroom window
i loved you as a secret
that lay between the shadows of my heart
and the tip of my tongue
i could not whisper your name aloud
but god, did i want to
i loved you boundlessly
like the wind, with no beginning and no end
forever traveling across your landscape
chasing the sunset resting on your horizon
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:iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 52 10
Literature
saudade
Last week, you showed up with the thunder on my doorstep.
Your voice was so drenched with the rain that I almost didn't recognize the way you said my name. It hung in the air like an incomplete sentence, like something unfamiliar, like you were so lost from trying to find everything we left behind and piece it back together that you couldn't find me in your heart anymore. It was pouring and the power was out and I was so tired of watching the world fall apart from outside my windows that I let you back inside my arms and inside my senses, and your bones were shaking as you clung to me and told me how good it felt to come back home.
There was something forced in our actions, as if we were going through the motions of something we had practiced a hundred times before. Your lips were all orchestrated movements against mine and the arch of your back and shudder of your breath felt rehearsed, so that when you lay tangled and spent in my bedsheets I let my mouth wander the terrain of your sh
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:iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 315 48
Literature
the opposite of a love letter
Sometimes, I think you forgot me.
To admit it, most days I've forgotten you, too. But sometimes a moment comes along that feels like you in my bones, and suddenly you're crashing through my veins, riding my pulse straight to my heart. And you sit in my chest, heavy and unwelcome, and it's hard to breathe because I cannot shut off the reel of memories playing in my head. So I close my eyes and count to ten, breathe evenly and steadily, tell myself that you are miles and years away. But I wake up the next morning with a dry taste in my mouth and a hollowness somewhere in the pit of my stomach and you're hanging onto me like a shadow even though it's already high noon.
You are a seasonal affliction. During the winter you are buried with the sunlight, but the moment the heat rises and the days lengthen, I can feel you. Last Tuesdays I drove for no reason with the windows down, the scent of fresh rain on hot pavement and shaved grass slapping my face, and it smelled like the curve of your c
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Literature
distinction
This is what I cannot understand.
There is an understanding that nothing is ever black and white. Good can be achieved through bad means, what's wrong can sometimes be right, and if you turn right for long enough, you eventually go left. Boys can be girls who fall in love with girls who sometimes think they are boys and the lines between everything end up irreversibly blurred.
Or so I've always thought.
But this is a line that cannot be blurred. This is the only remaining clear-cut line that separates black from white as perfectly as a color wheel. And that is the fact that everything is until it isn't. We are until we aren't. We breathe until we don't. We live until we die. There is no gray area, no matter what the talk of doctors and comas and life support and brain death might say. Your heart beats until it doesn't.
This goes beyond just life and death. Emotions are until they aren't. As are moments, definitions, seasons. Two people falling in love, well, some of them inevitably cra
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Literature
across the meridian
She felt the destruction settle in her bones.
When she lay awake at night, it swallowed her piece by piece and consumed everything that she was. She lay beneath the covers with her eyes open and irises glued to the heavens outside her window, and tried to forget about the black hole that rooted itself behind her ribcage and between her lungs. She counted the stars and looked for the man on the moon while she told herself that if she kept breathing, she would keep living, and that would be enough. If she kept breathing, if she remembered to inhale and exhale in the correct pattern, it wouldn't matter that her soul was slowly turning itself inside out and she hurt in every part of her body without knowing why, it wouldn't matter that she had completely lost track of who she was and who she wanted to become. If she kept breathing, it wouldn't matter that he was lying against her and whispering to her when all she felt was her axons slowly untangling, when all she heard was her synapses sh
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blitzkrieg by SocraticSynapses blitzkrieg :iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 2 41
Mature content
the throes of your name :iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 73 22
Literature
the pittsburgh pulse
i'm not a city boy.
i don't know what brought me out here, to a city that has a heartbeat and rumbles so thoroughly that when you lie awake in bed at night, it's almost as if you can feel it rise and fall with every breath it takes. i'm useless at falling asleep to something else's heartbeat because it begins to drown mine out and i forget the feel of mine and i forget if i was ever alive to begin with. lately every morning and every night begins and ends with the city's pulse and i can't remember the last time i heard my own blood pumping through my own veins.
i've started living in my own head to get away from the clutter of the city blocks. i take four steps outside my door and I'm already somewhere else. i've forgotten the feeling of walking onto my backyard porch and spreading out beneath the stars when i couldn't sleep at night. the thing about cities is that the only thing more forgotten than the grass is the stars, and if i can't see them when i've lost myself i don't think i'l
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:iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 38 41
Literature
they don't have words for this
i.
sometimes i can't breathe because i realize
how many choices i make in a day and i become
terrified that i will never again make the right
series of decisions to make me feel whole again
ii.
once upon a time i knew who i was but lately
it feels as if  i'm getting lost; i've moved to new
streets and fallen asleep to a new smell but
nothing is setting my crooked pulse right
iii.
when no one's home i fight the urge to crawl
into bed and close my eyes and relive the moments
i want back the most; i tell myself that when i
open them my life won't be just in my dreams
iv.
and i'm starting to think that maybe i took too
many chances and fell too many times in my life
but if someone knows the secret to living without
a tumble then they know the secret to not living at all
v.
maybe i could fix this if i slowed my breathing and
let someone into me to tidy up and make me whole;
maybe i could fix this but this heartandsoulache is
the closest they've been to feeling in a long time
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Literature
ravish
i.
these are the secrets we keep pressed against the skin of
your thighs and the confessions we dare not release past the
even rhythm of our pulses; this is everything our tongues keep
to themselves beyond the angles of lopsided secret smiles
ii.
these are the badges of honor we keep tucked on the insides
of our collars and in the rolls of our sleeves; this is the faintest
touch of my teeth leaving their mark on your clavicle and
the excuses we make when our distinctions are discovered
iii.
these are the memories we whisper to ourselves in stairwells
and private moments during the car ride home; this is you
closing your eyes and feeling the sensation of something greater
than friction building deep inside the spaces between your ribs
iv.
these are the movements our bodies have orchestrated and
rehearsed one thousand times with our eyes closed until we may
perform them with eyes wide open; this is resisting the arch
of your back against the most innocent of touches on your neck
v.
these
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:iconsocraticsynapses:SocraticSynapses 66 18

Favourites

Literature
genetics of alcoholism
looking back, there always has been
a method
to my madness.
we were looking at old hollywood.
at vintage photos of those glamorous
folk with their burned bridges and
trails of failed marriages,
dejected lovers.
you turned to me, so earnestly you said,
"how sad".
but that wasn't what i was thinking.
sometimes i feel you're much too earnest
for me.
* * *
that morning, i grabbed you by your naked shoulders,
shook you awake.
i'd asked you once, if your house were burning to the ground,
what would you take with you,
if you could only take one thing.
you said what you always have-
that you didn't know.
and for once, in that moment,
neither did i.
* * *
your eyes are never quite as blue, truly,
as they are when you are genuinely startled.
and i tend to keep this in mind.
you see, i've always been a sucker
for a ferocity to live.
:iconMarieHolly:MarieHolly
:iconmarieholly:MarieHolly 8 3
Literature
cotton-heart suicide
her name was lily and she told me that she spent her nights sewing new hearts for herself.
she told me that she made them out of silk and cotton. she said that they were beautiful reds and deep scarlets, sewn together with thin white thread.
every night, hunched over her sewing machine, she would recreate her heart, hoping that one day she'd make one that would beat.
-
she told me that she kept butterflies on necklaces because she was too afraid that they would fly away. she'd keep them on silver chains around her neck; dangling close to her heart.
she said that if she could, she would tie them to her hips or nail their colours to her wall.
when i asked her why she didn't want them to fly away, she said that they reminded her of me.
that on her necklaces, their paper-thin wings beat.
that when she held them close to her cotton-hearts, she could feel something;
something beautiful.
-
she tells me one afternoon on the way home with sad eyes, that she loves me. she tells me to never, ever
:iconrachel-rhapsody:rachel-rhapsody
:iconrachel-rhapsody:rachel-rhapsody 227 149
Literature
the artist.
01.
the sky was earl grey
and the clouds were steamy sips
and i wanted to drink it all.
02.
the leaves were star yellow
and the bark smelled of coffee
and the bakery was selling a moon made out of cheese.
03.
there was an old man on a bench
he threw his wedding band in the sewer
i cried for him.
04.
the birds were dreams
and the mountains, my obstacles,
tally ho young adventurer tally ho
05.
i ran into an artist today
he drew signs on corner post buildings
but he also gave his lunch to a homeless boy.
06.
my mom holds black holes beneath her eyes
and for the first time in days, she spoke to me,
"i'm worried about you. try to make some friends?"
07.
dear mom, i am trying
i played chess with a man in the park
i helped a girl find her parents
i am content with who i am, mom,
now i am just trying to help others achieve the same.
08.
i ran into the artist again today
and he taught me how to paint
and then he smiled at me and said, "you're different than the rest."
09.
we made plans, me and
:iconmomo-madness:momo-madness
:iconmomo-madness:momo-madness 536 494
Literature
interrupted slumber of stories
i.
  take me apart the way a reader would a bookshelf.
     tenderly slip graceful fingers along the bumps
      and bristles and nooks, sweep your palm along
     rigid flesh until it comes away gray with dust.
       remove every tome and stack them into a teetering
     pile so that their voices clamor together - a sound
         like slowly tilting a box full of small bells,
     quiet fairy speak that tells of gritty sand and
                                     lost boys and
                  &
:iconinjuredjaw:injuredjaw
:iconinjuredjaw:injuredjaw 6 1
Journal
Featured Member XLII: ~SocraticSynapses
:spotlight-left: SocraticSynapses :spotlight-right:
:iconsocraticsynapses:
Featured by jonathoncomfortreed
SocraticSynapses seems like one of those writers that has to write, you know? That writes simply because otherwise, their emotions would overflow. At least that's the way I like to think of it. And he's an exceptional writer. His command of syntax and unique writing style makes each and every one of his deviations a stunning creation – and a phenomenal description of feelings that we all share and most of us cannot express. I am truly grateful to have found this writer, and I strongly recommend that you take some time to read his work.

distinction
"There is no gray area, no matter what the talk of doctors and comas and life support and brain death might say. Your heart beats until it doesn't."
This deviation earned SocraticSynapses a Daily Deviat
:icontheWrittenRevolution:theWrittenRevolution
:iconthewrittenrevolution:theWrittenRevolution 3 13
Literature
Confabulation
       It's terrible what I did, and I know that. I should have just returned the book to her. Steal a girl's diary and watch the processes of her brain work in snapshots. You'll catch glimpses of her life—see the most intimate relationship someone can have with their memory. I read her diary from beginning to end—from the sunrise of her thoughts to that recurring dream she had last night, the one where she kept waking up only to find she was still dreaming.
       She limits how much of herself she'll expose to someone. It's like her eyes specifically go to her friend who always needs advice on what to wear, but she will never let said friend watch her eat. She listens to anyone who needs to fill a pair of ears with complaints, but they will never see her cry. She puts on this real fascinating show for people, comes off as this intriguing as hell person and only lets them see that much. She feeds off of th
:iconAwasteof-paint:Awasteof-paint
:iconawasteof-paint:Awasteof-paint 48 36
Literature
No ocean
No one sleeps the night the army comes home,
and memory storms the shore, bipolar and sexy.
You always knew where to go and what to drink,
where to find the crows that stalked the summers
left lying wrinkled on shorn boardwalks,
Augusts headless and Julys scuttling over hills.
When you were gone I fucked Arthur Rimbaud
in a Parisian basement. He hooked his eyelashes
under mine and made waves on my skin.  
Tolle, lege, like the parable tells me.
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:iconarchelyxs:archelyxs 131 84
Literature
I was Eros once.
I stuffed my throat,
eyes,
and pockets full of roses.
I tied myself up with heartstrings.
I set myself on fire.
:iconBaronAutumn:BaronAutumn
:iconbaronautumn:BaronAutumn 419 144
Literature
a tomber du lit et dans le reve fatigue
nothing is strong here. all the words are breathing in some dark cave, maybe in someone else's body. feels like there's metal in my veins, fingers pinching me from the inside of my stomach. sorta feels like my body is filling up with smoke. feeling dead in every city. it's like rain in your hair with it being the only thing strong enough to make your face fall into the pavement. and there are no words, especially none that give you a sudden and shocking surprise of hurt. no sharp words in here. it is tracing fingertips over lips, paper over skin, and dying quietly in a place where you're not able to really die.
and i wanted to feel it underneath my skin. i wanted to feel something strong pulling me under. i wanted pressure, a reminder that i had bones. i wanted your beating heart, loud and filling in all the spaces. something personal, something naked from your heart.
i wanted you to hurt me and i wanted to think that i would never forgive you. i wanted to forgive you and i wanted to f
:iconAwasteof-paint:Awasteof-paint
:iconawasteof-paint:Awasteof-paint 57 40
Ender's Game Book by jcbradley Ender's Game Book :iconjcbradley:jcbradley 70 29 home is where you are. by paperheartsyndrome home is where you are. :iconpaperheartsyndrome:paperheartsyndrome 995 137

Activity


deviantID

SocraticSynapses
Rachel Lemashov
United States
my name is rachel
and my soul tells its story through poetry

Favourite style of art: abstract and romantic
Personal Quote: an eye for an eye makes the whole world blind
Interests
there are a lot of things i can say here. about being in disbelief, about never thinking i would ever be the kind of writer to get a daily deviation, blah blah blah. but all i can say is.

holy freaking cow.

so thank you. to everyone who read the piece before, to everyone who has read it since, to the wonderful Halatia to featuring me. thank you. everyone. i can't believe it, and definitely cannot describe how much this means to me. you all are wonderful.

and of course, jimmy--i hope it did you right. i hope i made you proud.

fav.me/d3cs7q6
  • Reading: my future
  • Playing: with possibilities
  • Eating: butterflies

Comments


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:iconbeatingmyheart:
BeatingMyHeart Featured By Owner Nov 1, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
i hope you're well. :heart:
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:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner May 3, 2013   General Artist
Happy Birthday! :iconlachoirplz:
Reply
:iconpaperbackrevelations:
PaperbackRevelations Featured By Owner May 3, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Happy birthday girl! Have a good one!
Reply
:iconbango-ru:
Bango-Ru Featured By Owner May 2, 2013


:squee: >> Happy birthday.. :D

Reply
:iconsupergeekgr33n:
SupergeekGr33n Featured By Owner Apr 28, 2013
Happy birthday in a week!
Reply
:iconkacimu:
kacimu Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2013  Student Filmographer
Your writing is absolutely AMAZING. I watched (:
Reply
:iconlortiamjb:
LortiaMJB Featured By Owner Apr 26, 2013  Hobbyist Traditional Artist
you have an amazing set of writings and stories... I'm amazed! you just got a new watcher :)
Reply
:iconsilverinkblot:
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Jan 19, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Hello! Just a note to let you know I've done a small feature for you in my journal: [link] :)
Reply
:iconlemontea:
lemontea Featured By Owner Dec 23, 2012
Howdy! Merry Christmas! What's up?
Reply
:iconsammur-amat:
Sammur-amat Featured By Owner Nov 11, 2012   General Artist
Hello there, lovely person! :wave:

You've just been featured in my journal: [link] :heart:

It would mean the world to me if you could the article and maybe even find some pieces worth faving as well? :eager:

Thank you so very much for your time! :la:
Reply
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