Scars, July 20, 7:58

S c a r s 
are
s t o r i e s. 

They tell of hard times or daring adventures. Stupid mistakes that we've learned from, or times we've done the right thing no matter the cost.


S c a r s 
are
p r o o f.

Proof that we are strong, proof that we can survive.

S c a r s 
show
that
we
are
h u m a n.

July 10, 12:27

I am always trying to write poetry about smoke, but tonight I realized that you cannot write poetry about what is already poetry. The way it twists and turns, the way it flows and changes, fades out of existence. Smoke is the most beautiful poetry you will never read.

Your Hands

I could spend hours staring at just your hands. Your long thin fingers, almost tiny twigs at the end of your branches, the way they dance about my shoulders makes me shiver. The veins, so obvious and blue, almost protruding from your skin are almost like hidden rivers, flowing everlasting to an unseen destination. Every little calous with it's story to tell. Your knuckles, where fingers meet palms, are the most magnificent mountain range, and I want to be the first to explore it. The flesh on your finger tips is so hard and rough from wear and tear, but your touch is so gentle, more than making up for it. Your hands are full of life, full of strength as they hold me tight, yet so full of love as they caress my skin. I cannot wait to get lost in the life of your hands.

July 8, 12:29 pm

I was the sailor, lost at sea
You were the waves that carried me

July 10, 11:22 pm

I hate saying those three little words. I love you. It's a confession of weakness. It's more than telling someone how you feel, it's confessing to them that you've made yourself v u l n e r a b l e to them. You've opened yourself up for them and made yourself vulnerable and you're offering everything to them. You're letting them come in and tear you apart. Letting them rip out your organs, tear away your flesh and muscle, reduce you to a s k e l e t o n. It's a confession of submission because you will let them. You will sit there as they strip out first your stomach, then maybe a lung, and lastly your heart. You will let them p e e l away your skin, rip away the muscle. And you might even enjoy it. 

July 10, 10:13 pm

I can't wait for winter. I can't wait for sweaters that give me hugs when no one else does. I can't wait for the sweet kiss of hot chocolate on a cold morning. I can't wait to stand outside and try to tell the difference between the smoke from my cigarette and my warm breath.

I wish I could fly. I don't have some weird obsession with flying or birds or the sky. I just want to be able to leave. I want to be able to just up and fly away when things get too hard or too stressful. Flying would grant me the freedom I've always dreamt of. I could leave this town. I could leave this city, leave this state, leave this country. I could start a new life somewhere else. I could get a new name, create a new me, and the world would be none the wiser. My past would no longer haunt me everywhere I go. I could be the man I've always dreamt of being. No one could stop me if I could defy gravity. I would be in control of my life and choices. If things start to turn sour, I could spread my wings, take to the skies, and start all over again.

Avery on his children

A note from Zayne: Avery did not know about his children. I've got a full explanation somewhere, but the short version is this: while Avery spent a lot of time in France with Evelyne, he did leave for months at a time. He may have sworn of sailing as a pirate, but he'd taken up a small fishing job, that sometimes took him all over that side of the world. Twice, he'd been gone for terribly long, once for 10 months, and once for a year. Charles and Ariel, the twins, were born during the ten months, and Jaylene the year.

Jaylene was 5 years old when we were introduced. She was not the least bit shy. When her mother introduced us, she walked right up to me and shook my hand. 

Avery drabble

She was my everything
I met her when she was 19. I looked 25, but I was really in my two hundreds.
She was breath taking. Gorgeous. Bright green eyes, long golden hair. I towered over her in height by at least a head.
She had a laugh that made you laugh. Her voice was like music.
I loved her with everything I was. Her mother adored me, her father respected me. Everything was perfect.
The days I spent without her, I ached inside. It was a physical pain comparable to the tortures I withstood in Italy. But when I went back to her, I could breathe again.
She was my reason to live, and I lost her.

Drabble, 6/18

I stand before you, a clean slate, a blank canvas, waiting for your brush strokes to paint me a masterpiece in your image. I know that I will be your finest piece, your star . You will make me into such beauty that no eyes would be able to look upon me without tearing up.

Drabble 6/18

But you are the smoke I try to capture, the tiger I try to tame. I know it will never be, but I must never stop trying, for fear you will become naught. You will turn out to be some figment my mind created to fill in the blankness you would leave behind.

Cigarettes, written April 12, 2012

He flicked it one, two, three times before the ash fell off the end. Up to his mouth, suck in, breathe out.

It was his stress reliever. There was no addiction, no needing one just to need one. He needed it to keep the shaking and bad thoughts at bay. It helped him concentrate on keeping a clear head when it got too bad. He could go weeks without needing one. Sometimes he did. But there were days where he smoked a whole box, if not more.

He flicked it one, two, three times to knock the ash off the end. Up to his mouth, suck in, breathe out.