there is a tornado watch. and i am watching the rain. i have been writing for an hour and finally it makes me drop my pen. the rain is beating my patio and turning it to white with it’s spray.
i have been awake wracked in panic. grinding molars. tossing pillows. twisting hair needlessly around one finger. and then the other. eventually rousing myself from the sleepless bed to sit in the front room lounge chair and watch the storm. but I can’t simply watch. i have danced in the rain. i have, dare i say it, made love in the rain. so i lend it to backdrop. i am scribbling blindly in the dark. smelling the lead waft from the mechanical pencil. and thinking how hardened I am. i can’t even enjoy a good storm. so I scribble and my brow begins to unfrurrow (if that is possible, if that is a word). after six pages I pause. the rain is really coming down, as they say. it beats the brick of my shelter. it washes the patio. and it pours. i pass by the familiar thoughts of watering the earth, washing away your sins, baptisms. but this is not a ritual. this is not an hallmark moment. it’s just a feeling.
and there’s no denying it. my chest caves and i feel that sink of corpse into the old black leather lounger. i want the lightning to bleat. i want the rain to beat the porch. i want the earth to press against my bac. i want the weight of the lead apron in the dentist’s chair during xrays. i want a lover to pin me to the mattress. i want to be told what to do. i want instruction. i want consequences like storms. i want to imbibe too much and my heart to beat too quickly the next morn, telling me the havoc of a cheap date and a denial of “what is good for me”. i want to rebuild from the damage i reap, be it bruises or kidneys or egos.
i just want someone
to tell me