I don’t know how to write a poem, not a good one at least
But I can feel one
Trapped in the darkness between my lungs and ribs
It echos like a storm, until my bones rattle and splinter
Until flesh is torn, again and again and again
My body wasn’t made to handle hurricanes
My hands can only hold on for so long until they tire
I can’t write a poem, but I can feel one
In my wrists and fingers
Vibrations from inside my chest cavity that fill up the absence
And ripple out like water
It’s the just the aftermath, wrecked homes that look like splints from up above
But that’s the closet you’ll ever get to the storm