I caught lightning in your bottle, and I swallowed it whole. So torrid and treacherously lit, I became the kind of something you taught yourself to run from. Skin tight and white hot, I radiate light from all angles; buzzing with fluorescence. With my fingertips brightening the curves of your lips, I trace that familiar fine line between your fear and fascination.
In a single crack across the sky, I will set your darkness ablaze and leave you with a deafening boom of clarity. Jolted and stunned, you take in an infinite illumination, devouring every inch of the unknown color and wonder once shadowed by your thick, murky doubt.
Blink, and it disappears as quickly as it came to be. What you see, you canβt forget. As the spots dance, staccato in front of your eyes, you run, just as you taught yourself, fast and far, away from the light; disenchanted once again, as you recall the fact that lightning never strikes the same place twice. the same place twice.