My story is a catalogue of natural disasters. When read to children, it will make them cry, and when read to bystanders, they turn into passersby. Every time I open up my mouth I birth tornadoes, watch their destruction, call it coincidence, go on opening my mouth up again.
There is a hailstorm in my chest that’s beating pellets against my ribcage to protest the way sitting still feels, when my heart’s all palpitations and my head’s all spinning wheels.
We make serious waves. You uprise in me like the most divine hurricane, and I’m busy rubbing my hands together to keep them warm from all the blood lost on the page; I’m turning pages, wondering if I remember how to act my age… I’m smiling, stupid, toothless… I’m five again and all my poetry says “you’re pretty. We should kiss.”
I’ve never had the heart to say that the storm gives me breath in the most unnatural way – I live to see the deconstruction of what should have never been. The walls between us are arbitrary… they don’t come from within.
I’m curly-haired, soaked-to-the-bone, giggling in the eye of the storm because as the wind slows, just for the moment, I open my eyes, and I see you, and I know… I’m not the only one who stands
doing a rain dance
in the middle
of the storm
April 28th, 2015