The Storm

One summer night.

A circle of friends made angels in the grass.

Cracking jokes

with sickly, twisted laughter that dripped of desperation.

The jokes weren’t funny.

But the alternative was tears.

And they were there,

soaking the laughter.

Too fast the sun caved to the seething clouds,

so the angels wrapped their arms around me and squeezed,

as ropes binding me to my home.

Freedom was the furthest from my mind.

And my friends exclaimed,

“It’s not goodbye.”

A year passes.

I analyze pictures overflowing with sequins, buckles, and lip gloss.

There was a dance.

I found out through Facebook.

Yet I still searched for the hole where I belonged.

But all I saw was another girl in a pink dress,

who I didn’t recognize.

And I cried that night.

I clutched my knees to my chest

because they were my only life raft in the storm.

I was drowning in old pictures and text messages

that I had never received.

As I sunk below the surface,

I whispered

“It’s not goodbye.”

But nobody listened.