You speak yourself into a storm. Painting the rain drops, with the words tip-tapping, slipping from your throat. You blow on embers, golden red, in the hopes of creating a forest fire, in the hopes of being the forest fire. You cannot imagine yourself a hurricane, daydream into a tsunami, and yet you do, you do.

Girl, you are no hurricane, you are someone who is so afraid of stopping, that instead of standing still you fashion, imagine, try to imagine that the fire licking up your spine, is not somehow your fault.

Girl, you are no apocalypse, you are no natural disaster, you are just a garden where things have forgotten how to grow.

Yet you do, imagine yourself a hurricane, pray that you will drown under the words, spilling from your throat.

Girl,

Slow down

Just a minute

Hold on.

Girl,

You cannot fashion yourself a natural disaster, make yourself a cosmic galaxy and than you cannot wonder why it still hurts when you bleed.

Girl,

Hold on,

Please.

You can go to therapy.

I know

Radical

Right?

You can get up and shower or if that’s to hard brush your teeth.

You can stop praying that by hating everyone around you they will to.

You can stop hoping that by not existing out of four, thin walls that you will cease to be someone, something. After all, no-one mourns the living dead.

Girl,

I beg you, stop, just for a second.

Because you are no hurricane.

No world ending, life threatening disaster.

Girl,

You are human, and you feel and you love and you cry.

And girl,

For gods sake, go to therapy.