long I’ve sat swirling within

tornadoes of hurt

invaded by these wounds

which I wouldn’t admit were there

but with a new perspective

I see all the ways

in which I let the hurt consume

but I can let it devour me

or I can allow my body to

expand and contract and absorb this storm

swallow whole this pain

each of my cells becoming stronger survival of the fittest

perhaps that gentle naivety

may be eaten away by the storm

what remains might callous over

but even so what remains will be

strength, endurance, grit

from going through it all

and still surviving

no longer a victim of circumstance

I will see that which I can control

no longer allowing the storm

to tunnel around myself

over and over and in an out

I will not sit within the storm

screaming

WHY DOES IT KEEP RAINING

as all the wind scrapes against my skin

beaten by debris flung from the sky

no more

I will swallow the tornado

use it as a fuel

use it to cut out

some of the soft spaces within me

but I will be strong

still loving

still caring

but I will choose carefully

where I give my love

where I give my care

because all things do not deserve it

all things do not deserve for me

to give and give and give

until there is nothing left

scooping parts of me out

onto a platter for others

I will be reserved

I will be discerning

with that which I give

and to whom I give it to

for this is my becoming

becoming the person that I am

on the other side of the pain

and I will use it wisely

and be a storm all on my own

First a drip...

And then a drop...

And then a splutter...

And then shower...

And then a downpour...

We stared up at the sky,  the drops sliding down our faces, over our eye lids, around our noses, tracing the contours of our lips, before pooling at our chins and dropping down to the sparkling blades of grass below. She looked over at me, and smiled.

We both love the rain.

We sat inside, curled up on the couch, drinking tea and watching the rain fall from the sky, as if the house had been placed beneath waterfall, the torrent of cascading droplets never wavering or ceasing, cocooning us within our own world of water.

We were the only people on earth.

"I watch you sometimes," she said. "When we walk."

The smallest smile flowed over her visage, that sort of smile reserved for the loveliest little things, the one that appears once in a epoch, guarded preciously for only the most intimate moments when words fail to describe a feeling, a moment where only the smallest little smile can describe a whole universe.

"You're the only person I know,'' she continued, brushing her damp hair from her eyes, "that looks around when they walk. The first thing you do when you walk out of a building is look up."

Her eyes glistened with the rain as she looked at me.

"Why?"

It was my turn to smile.

"Because I don't want to miss out..." I trailed off, trying to find the words.

"We spend so much time looking down, looking at our phone screens, craning our necks anywhere and everywhere but upwards... There's a whole world above us."

She nodded, turning herself on the couch so that she could face me. She rested her head on her arm. Her chestnut hair seemed to foam around her.

"But it's more than that. There is such freedom in the sky. The sky," I said, emphasizing the word as it shimmered off my tongue, "is beholden to no one. It is subject to the whims of the universe, always changing, never static, never stuck in a moment. Embracing the sky is like embracing change, change which is as inevitable in life as death."

The rain was beginning to let up now. The world outside was in limbo, as if it didn't know whether it wanted to rain or shine, and it seemed to glow in that special way that it does only after a long rain, when the world is so dark and grey, coated in a thick, heavy veneer of swirling clouds, but simultaneously so bright. The ghost of a rainbow flickered in the distance beneath the voluptuous brume.

"Whenever I feel trapped, all I have to do is look up, and I'm free."

1. Don’t think, just write—look back later and gather ideas from there. Our best potential is hidden deep within the unconscious recesses of our minds.

2. Write everything that comes.

3. Keep a dictionary and thesaurus nearby. Every word carries a slightly different meaning, flavor, tone, and it’s crucial to piece together the right ones to convey our image.

4. Read hard books. Exposure to hard, eloquent writing with hard, eloquent words teaches our minds to think naturally on that higher and more difficult level.

5. When faced with a serious bout of writer’s block, look around you for inspiration. Everything has a life, a history, something that makes it

uniquely it. Ponder that.

I try to deny it

but every day

I’m more bitter

the sea of sadness

draws closer

raging tides

within trembling silence

but I don’t want

to sit in empty pity

even as the things

I want to hold

fall through

my fingers like sand

instead I bid

a beautiful adieu

to all these thoughts

that do not serve me

the truth is all the things

I keep losing are just things

that either didn’t deserve me

or didn’t serve me

so I’ll wipe the tears

that stained my skin

take a breath

begin again