I want to write about a girl
with auburn hair.
(It's not her natural color,
or at least it's not what springs out of her head,
but I think it's her true color.)
She is soft and severe,
fire and rain,
a smile that doesn't reach the eyes
and an effortlessly gentle soul
that shines from her gaze
when she's sure no one's looking,
but I usually am.
I can see that when somebody else notices her,
shutters fall and the house is boarded up.
It's hurricane season for her, always.
A never-ending tempest.
Swirling category four, cyclone in the flesh,
yet she stands there
solid-footed.
She is the eye of the storm.
She is the calm within the towering thunderstorms.
She touched my cheek accidentally
when she was helping disentangle my hair,
and I am caught in the wind and the rain
and the flame
and those green eyes.
Lord, help me not to sink.
There is no one here to help me if I do.
Mar 12, 2018
Mar 12, 2018 at 9:15 PM UTC
I want to write about a girl
with auburn hair.
(It's not her natural color,
or at least it's not what springs out of her head,
but I think it's her true color.)
She is soft and severe,
fire and rain,
a smile that doesn't reach the eyes
and an effortlessly gentle soul
that shines from her gaze
when she's sure no one's looking,
but I usually am.
I can see that when somebody else notices her,
shutters fall and the house is boarded up.
It's hurricane season for her, always.
A never-ending tempest.
Swirling category four, cyclone in the flesh,
yet she stands there
solid-footed.
She is the eye of the storm.
She is the calm within the towering thunderstorms.
She touched my cheek accidentally
when she was helping disentangle my hair,
and I am caught in the wind and the rain
and the flame
and those green eyes.
Lord, help me not to sink.
There is no one here to help me if I do.
Yes, I want to write about her, even though I know I shouldn't.
Writing makes the story that much more favorable to tell, and I cannot tell this to anyone.
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