Woman / Storm
There are wells that are inexhaustible. They come with many names, and they have an everlasting depth to them, much like Regret, or Grief, its sister, or Death, their mother. Words don’t seem adversarial until they come at you with a scythe. You look over your left shoulder a little too late.
Women eat tempests for breakfast. They have wet, pink tongues. They bicycle around beat-up pathways, their hearts vibrating like cellos. Are we talking about women, still, or storms? Is there a difference?
Today, I whispered a hello to no one, and I thought I heard it whispered back. That half-imagined hello is still half-real though, and the expansive distance it can travel, in any direction, just to find you, is terrifying.
Did you know that if it’s laden with enough history, a hello is worth its weight in stars? Starlight offers itself to the naked eye without sentiment, and its journey is a straight line, timed perfectly.
Sometimes, I write fiction. Or do I?
I eat tempests for breakfast. I’m a woman. I’m a storm.