Sometimes the rain doesn't just roll off my skin.
Instead of water,
sheets of razors pour from the sky,
slicing my soul into something unrecognizable.

And it makes me feel more
than I have let myself in weeks.
Sharp and cold and harsh
juxtaposing itself from my warm naivety
and shut eyes.

So much damage to the inside
that my skin prickles from underneath
and I shutter at the downpour of metal.

And I beg it to stop,
beg it to let me sleep again,
and curse the sky for making me breathe through stripped lungs.

Nothing so violent has ever been so quiet.
Nothing so dark has ever felt so familiar.