I have love inside me—
not the kind that waits politely
with folded hands in the corners of rooms,
but the kind that grows in the lungs of the sea,
the kind that calls your name through
walls of blood and centuries.

It is a storm that writes letters
on the glass of my bones.
It is a flame that no mouth has kissed.
I offered it—like fruit fallen
from the tree of my chest.

But if no one drinks from me,
if no hands arrive to be burned
by this sacred fire,
then what shall I do
with all this red thunder?

I will not vanish quietly.
If I cannot be loved,
I will become the wind
that shakes the windows of your sleep,
the howl beneath your quiet steps.

Fear me,
not because I am cruel—
but because I once was soft.
Because I once waited
like the earth waits
for rain that never comes.