you could say I’m a disaster
I swept you up in my cyclone. my chaos
scrambled the contents of your life in that quiet Kansas town
and spit you back out on yellow-bricked ground.
I don’t know much about anything
except how it felt to be your mess.
when you used to say my name,
lightning coursed through my veins.
back then you were a shock to my system;
now remembering you is a slow burn
and I’m almost ashes I’m
a disaster.
but I’ve never been a natural.
I try and I try and
sometimes I succeed
then the aftershock of you leaving
sends a tidal wave of guilt over me.
I’d never seen water take the shape of a wall
I thought only I put those up and you almost made me fall
but my storm needed no coaxing at all
before it came crashing
down
down
down
and your ghost came in with the rain.
