A moody disposition. Deep, penetrating eyes of obsidian that rage with silent hell-fire. Powerful and sky-sweeping. Strong and guarded. Damaged and broken.
He is the man who desperately wants to be a father, but who never goes anywhere without a rubber in his pocket.
He is the man who wants to love and be loved, but pain is all he knows.
He is the cold and unfeeling creature that eats up pretty things and spits their bones onto the cold, tiled floor before daybreak.
He is a hunter that doesn’t need to hunt. His prey lay themselves at his feat, begging to be devoured.
He is the man who can have whatever he wants, but only truly desires what doesn’t want him.
He is a memory fading quickly.
He’s a body to be buried.
He is a trauma to suppress.
He is just Storm to me. But a God to everyone else.
They say he didn’t quite recover. That for a long time the only snacks he brought home to munch on were blondes with heads that didn’t clear his shoulder.
They said he gave his liver the work-out of a lifetime, and corroded the lining of his stomach.
They say he couldn’t sleep in his own bed for months…
But who the fuck are they? Who are they to say?
He is the man still fighting with a dead man. His father’s ghost hangs in the corner of every room.
He doesn’t drink to drown his demons. He drinks to let them loose so he can have a break. His body is a temple, but inside there are sights that will make you turn away. There are things there you’re not allowed to see.
But I caught glimpses. His father’s ghost held me down against my will and stole a part of me.
My body was another playground, until a Storm arrived, leaving the ground soaked in blood and regret.
Storm is black ink down the back of my throat that I am trying to cough up.
Storm is a nightmare wrapped in a dream, encased in a nightmare, cocooned in cobwebs from the past.
He is obsessed with hygiene, but leaves a mess everywhere he goes and on everyone he touches.
From the outside, he looks just like another pair of combat boots, walking the pavement of a Garrison city.
He is strong but fragile- splintering without warning. Spun glass that looks like titanium.
He is a battle hardened knight that would sacrifice himself in a heartbeat for you. Just because.
He is disappointed and confused.
He is healing, far away.
He is the subject that I’m ready to put down now.
He’s a dappled dream that I gently lay to rest.
Who the fuck is Storm?
Honestly, I don’t know anymore…