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Thunderstorm

This is the only thing I have to explain where I was today and where my mind still is. I wrote this a few years back but my body is determined to live up to every line.

Thunderstorm

There’s a thunderstorm in my body. It’s not a hurricane or a tsunami that wipes everything out leaving people stunned and shocked at the devastation. Responders rush in to help clean up, help house and keep warm those who have survived. No, this is a thunderstorm, the type that rages until it’s almost normal.

I’m used to being wet.

Soaked. I'm soaked to the heart, to my lungs and my knees.
The rumblings make my teeth chatter. My body swings to the tune.

There’s a thunderstorm, a lightning fire in my hands, between the blades of my shoulders, in the soles of my feet.

As anyone in the rain, I walk with urgency through the dark.
The electricity is out. There are no street lights, just headlights playing tricks
in the raindrops that arouse ghosts on shiny black pavement.
I’m cold. I’m always cold but I’m used to being wet.

I can barely feel the rain yet my shoulders are held high, my brow is deep, vision swimming.
I keep walking.
I walk with white sheets of rain coming down so fast and so hard they beat anything that ever tried to grow, right back into the earth.
What might have been blows down the street, to where I can not see.

From nowhere in this norm there is thunder that shakes the trees
and lightening that threatens to set them on fire.
I hold my ground.
On shaky legs I slosh through gravel and water which has created a gritty crunch beneath my feet.
I’m going home, I think, or maybe I’m just walking.
I don’t even know the name of the street. I can’t see anything, it’s so dark.
I can’t see, anything.

My clothes cling to me.
My hair is water logged, skin shriveled, fingers numb.
I am accustomed to the rain. I’m used to being wet.
It is the thunder, it is the lightening that shakes me to the core.
The thunder is so loud, the lightening so fast
and so close
it nearly singes the last bit of my mind
the thunder didn’t take with it.
I grit my teeth and I bear it because I know with each step I’m closer to home.
I’m going home, I think.

It’s been hours, surely there is nothing left of this storm.
Surely the lightening will tire itself
and the voice of thunder will become sore and faint. It’s been hours.

I’m used to being wet, but I am so cold.
I’m so cold.

FMA

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