AvalancheDeVries

 "You're burgundy." Willow whispered, glancing over the rim of her tea cup at me. Her tired eyes looked me over quickly, worry shadowing them. I set the coffee that I had just gotten from the kitchen down on the table. Gravity worked against it, a deep brown puddle pooled around the cup on the battered wood. Perhaps it had been more of a slam. Instinctively my fingers went to my chest, my fingers knowing the exact location of the spiral of names, even through the two shirts that I wore. There was a burning, stinging pain radiating from deep inside, much deeper than the ink branding me. I dropped my hand as soon as I realized what it was

 "I've forgotten how to be alone." She whispered, words blending with his breath as she cupped his face in her hands. She rested her forehead against his, looking into his eyes, she had never known that brown eyes could have so much depth. They had always simply been flat, a Crayola Crayon in her mind before she met him, now they were a lustrous mahogany. "What if I'm no good at it anymore?" She pulled away from him, now running her hand down his jaw line, feeling the stubble under her finger tips. He always forgot to shave. Her eyes took in his face as a whole. She was constantly startled by just how handsome he was. It was like she forgot

 "Where are you going?" the girl asked. She rolled to her side to face me; she'd been laying on her back.   I put a cigarette in my mouth, considering the question. I couldn't think of how to properly answer it. On one hand I could just tell her where I was going once I left here—I knew that wasn't what she wanted to hear—or I could make up an answer for what I knew she was asking. Either way I figured she wouldn't be pleased. I decided to clarify her vague question prior to answering; it would buy me time to conjure a response. "In life? Or when I leave this town?" I asked lighting the cigarette. I offered another unlit cigare

I could have fallen in love with a British boy. A boy with gypsy blood running, wandering, through his veins. A boy with the honey-brown skin of the Rom but the dirty blond hair and clear green eyes of something much, much different (a strange combination born of his mismatched parents, he said). A boy who'd left a lover far behind. A boy who I knew would never really end up being mine. Sawyer was his name. "Like Mark Twain's character?" I'd inquired upon learning it. He let out a loud, unabashed laugh, his sleep depraved dark-circled eyes lighting with amusement. "It's an allusion that fits me more than you could probably guess my dear

I always wonder what it is that went wrong with the building blocks of my body to ruin my heart.  Why it is that the second (first most maybe? For without it my brain wouldn't have blood, or a body to boss around, but, then again it is my brain that tells my heart to send my blood surging through my veins. I suppose it's a conundrum) important organ in my body was created ruined. Why my pieces aren't 100% right, even though I have ten fingers and ten toes that point to perfect formation. Why it was my heart that keeps me living and not my toes that keep me standing or my hands that keep me writing. Perhaps it was because somewhere deep insi

There are times that I can't speak. Times when it's not that I won't force the words—eloquent yet jagged—from my mouth, but when I simply can't force them—all pretty syllables in harsh octaves—from beyond the barrier of my mind because I stop the churning mass of words inside. I often can't distinguish what from what in the tornado-like myriad of emotions sentences and phrases tearing around and around in my head. All of those swirling things block the rest out, forcing me into standoffishness because I can't fathom the process of conversation. I can't comprehend listening to their words and holding fast to them while se