#bottled message.

Bishop is the iron in a drop of blood.

He’s the metallic aftertaste when you bite your lip too hard and the sensation floods your mouth; hard to swallow and intriguing all the same. 

The tension in the air rides on his shoulders where it’s coiled and released depending on the curl of a lip or the flash of unnatural blues.

He’s a sordid mystery with a color swatch that matches his past; swirls of grey, black, all splashed with the inescapable band of scarlet that runs deep and thick. You can guess. But who is to say you’ll ever pinpoint what ticks beneath a shaded gaze? 

He’s restrained power beneath a lion’s shiny coat, poised for the pounce but languid as it lies in wait. 

Bishop will stand at the end of things; not because mortality sits on the sidelines out of his grasp, but because he will accept nothing less.

Benny is the slow drag of a midnight cigarette.

He’s the curl of smoke as it draws you in and cinches the ability to breathe. He’s the one you’re supposed to be wary of; stories of the smooth talker. He’ll strike before you’re aware.

He’s the effortless course of Southern Comfort liquor as it slides along the throat and coats it; dulling the senses and pulling forth a misleading calm. Drink after drink is consumed; the slow burn of your death imminent. 

He is deadly.

Benny is a gentle breeze that foretells the coming of a plague of locusts.

He’s the embers of a snuffed fire, burning low and hot despite the ash that threatens to swallow them so entirely. He is darkness but not to the core.

Benny does not belong.

Like smoke in the night, he rises and disappears into the air. It matters not how long it lingers, filling the lungs and the senses. A point comes where it’s gone.

1; screenshot of the desktop.

3; screenshot of my blog.

4; screenshot post count.

Andrea is the sweltering heat in a desert oasis. The cool alluring drink of water that turned into boiling sand and yet still you drink your fill, parched. She’s the thirst that follows suit.

She’s the salt left on sea-weathered skin long after the water has dried. The feel lingering no matter how many times the salt is brushed away.

Andrea is the provocation to change.Promises flitting from dark hair and smooth spoken words. 

She’s a hope for a new beginning.Redemption found in soft skin and whispered words.A place for monstrosity to curl into beauty and pretend to be normal. 

& yet— she’s a doubt that festers in the back of your mind. She’s out of grasp and perhaps always has been.

She’s the representation of what can’t be.Of what once was.Of lost dreams scattered on the shores of the subconscious.

She’s the painful jolt to reality when the curtain falls and everything is turned upside down.

& suddenly she’s the dawning of your own naive determination. 

Raylan is the eye of a storm.

The misleading lull to chaos.

He’s rage; stoked to perfection over the flames of a charred past, turned every which way, unadulterated by time and provoked further by the present. The shadow of his father. A shadow that stretches across even the title and position he holds.

He’s the form of a justice that criminals seek to avoid; the darkened type that doesn’t relent beneath pleas of mercy.

Raylan is the calm shift of air that keeps the destruction of a storm at bay. But he is the very same storm. Writhing and waiting; loaded. Aimed. Safety off. 

He isn’t the gun in his hands. Or the bullet in the chamber.He’s the unparalleled force that ignites beneath the right amount of pressure; he is the trigger. He is the gunpowder. He is what’s left behind.

He will become his own undoing.Raylan will coil beneath his own weight and become everything he’s tried not to be.