The Breakup Prose: For When It’s a (natural) Disaster

Have you ever had a person that had a grounding effect on you? I’d come back from a long day and talk to them and my body would be cleansed of all negative energy. When we’d touch, sparks flew; it was electric . . . until the tornado hit and took out all lines of communication. And now, I’m in the dark and smell smoke.

I felt the signs a week before, like the change in rain patterns and the sudden stillness whenever I’d send a text. But I thought, “this person is different, I’d never even need an Ark.” My tears were falling as hard as the rain as I grappled to make it to high ground, as I pleaded with the sky, as I screamed internally, hoping that you’d reached the eye of the storm.  Where are the sunny skies?  What ended the halcyon days?  When we met again it felt calm, yet foreboding.  I was nonetheless reassured, because who would destroy me after they saw the tornado in my heart?

Just when I was high enough on the mountain, the mudslide came, and when I saw it, I gave up and let it take me and bury you.  It was bound to happen eventually, that’s how natural disasters work, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

Under the mud I’m buried; there is earth in my lungs. Eventually, the rains will wash the excess away. I was made of earth after all. Flowers can still grow.

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