it's funny to me that you think meeting me eight years ago was some sort of holy thunderstorm;
as if the heavens sent you this so-called blessed rain instead of the stagnant water that pooled in the well hidden deep in the woods i refuse to enter anymore.
i haven't figured it out yet;
is thunderstorm a nod to the alias i used at fifteen (storm),
or are you once again underestimating violence and calling yourself devout?
because that room down the hallway i suffocated in had the same energetic impact as gallows,
and i was the only one on my knees.
your memories rush back.
mine are a creaky door in darkness;
sometimes there's phantom screaming,
sometimes a little girl crying on a tiled floor with eyes watching back,
sometimes catatonia,
sometimes a disembodied figure luring me into the trees.
if meeting you was a thunderstorm,
then it's true that i still feel the static electricity still lingering in the deepest parts of my bones some days.
it's not warm.
it hurts.
because i had given you that power as if you were Zeus himself.
for eight years,
i worshipped your incapacity with full awareness to the point of surrender.
"this is the worst person that ever happened to me,
and i will compare every person out of spite."
as if you would ever know the impact of you lingered far into my adulthood
and desecrated my potential.
as if you would know how everyone that knows me also knows you as the demon in tiled hallways.
i kept those walls,
used them to hold myself up,
read the graffiti (my own blood) as commandment.
i thought it was safer than whatever was on the other side of those metal doors.
i want out.
i want out of these walls.
i'm tired of thinking safety means being terrified every man will have your hands.
you say the rain wears you down.
it nearly drowned me.
the difference is i left the storm
and you stayed behind to write about it.
Jan 3
Jan 3, 2026 at 8:56 PM UTC
it's funny to me that you think meeting me eight years ago was some sort of holy thunderstorm;
as if the heavens sent you this so-called blessed rain instead of the stagnant water that pooled in the well hidden deep in the woods i refuse to enter anymore.
i haven't figured it out yet;
is thunderstorm a nod to the alias i used at fifteen (storm),
or are you once again underestimating violence and calling yourself devout?
because that room down the hallway i suffocated in had the same energetic impact as gallows,
and i was the only one on my knees.
your memories rush back.
mine are a creaky door in darkness;
sometimes there's phantom screaming,
sometimes a little girl crying on a tiled floor with eyes watching back,
sometimes catatonia,
sometimes a disembodied figure luring me into the trees.
if meeting you was a thunderstorm,
then it's true that i still feel the static electricity still lingering in the deepest parts of my bones some days.
it's not warm.
it hurts.
because i had given you that power as if you were Zeus himself.
for eight years,
i worshipped your incapacity with full awareness to the point of surrender.
"this is the worst person that ever happened to me,
and i will compare every person out of spite."
as if you would ever know the impact of you lingered far into my adulthood
and desecrated my potential.
as if you would know how everyone that knows me also knows you as the demon in tiled hallways.
i kept those walls,
used them to hold myself up,
read the graffiti (my own blood) as commandment.
i thought it was safer than whatever was on the other side of those metal doors.
i want out.
i want out of these walls.
i'm tired of thinking safety means being terrified every man will have your hands.
you say the rain wears you down.
it nearly drowned me.
the difference is i left the storm
and you stayed behind to write about it.
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