Tempest

The sharp night air to which the curtains softly sway Burns my skin with its cold caress. It moves through my hair gently, twisting it into knots, Tugging as if to taunt and humiliate me. The carpet scratches aggressively at the bottom of my feet-- A constant reminder of my unfortunate inability To relax when even the most minuscule problem prods. The marble windowsill Though smooth enough to grasp And strong enough to lean on Prohibits me from becoming its dependent With its repulsive, icy touch to my fingertips. This rejection provokes rain from within Seeking to trace the outline of my nose. A rain drop slides down to ever-so-gently kiss my quivering lips. This rain, having made contact, Cannot resist any longer Nor hold back: The storm is on top of me. It pours down. An earthquake shows me half-hearted mercy; Appeasing to my lack of strength, yet Hurling me to the ground with intentions. My wrists burn from that damned carpet. The aftershocks, Much weaker, Do more damage Than the quake. They move through every bone and muscle Again and again, coursing through even my veins Until all aches with an incomprehensible pain, Giving only a moment's rest to falsely mollify between attacks. The moment's rest brings faint light-- What I believed was safety and comfort-- But just as quickly, the moment ends. The light begins to fade, Murmuring around me as the wind did to my hair. It steals from me my every wisp of smoky hope Mocking and jeering as it disappears Leaving behind only the option of tangible playthings. They disgust me. I have no desire for those things. I don't play "Second Best". I close my eyes to avoid, Until the very last second, What I sense as new rain coming, Bringing with it another storm Of growling thunder seeping into me And fresh, dark clouds thrusting lightning into my heart.